


Nothing Gold Can Stay

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: (the poetry was a mistake), 1920s Chicago AU, Bill is part of the Mafia, Death, Dipper isn't (and then he is sorta), M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Poetry, a disappointing lack of money puns, additional warnings at the start of particular chapters, musical foreshadowing, the real villain is the time period tbh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-18 18:08:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 59,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4715543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1924 and Chicago's streets are alive with crime. Dipper Pines wants nothing to do with any of it, but the gangsters that hijack his store don't give him much of a choice. He catches the interest of Bill, a high ranking member of the mob, and soon finds himself lost in the ritz and rot of Chicago's underworld.</p><p>(lmao ditching this fandom)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Business as Usual

Dipper Pines was not a salesman. He knew this, his sister knew this, anyone who had ever met him knew this, and yet there he was, sat behind a chipped wood counter, tending the cash register and watching pedestrians trickle by on the sidewalk.

Nobody gave Pines’ Fine Antiques a second glance as they hustled along down Racine Street, but it gave Dipper a crisis every time someone approached the door.

On the one hand, if they entered, he’d be able to sell them things and turn a profit, which was, of course, his job. On the other, doing so would require he talk to them in a coherent manner whilst also convincing them that he had his life under control, which was still surprisingly difficult even at the age of twenty-three.

Normally, Mabel would have been there to help him out—she was the charismatic one, after all—but she was out today with her girlfriends at the movies, no doubt drooling over some cinema star.

Dipper wasn’t one for the silver screen and instead chose to bury himself in books. He kept a stash of them underneath the counter since slow days were something one came to expect at Pines’ Fine Antiques. It was the twentieth century, and no one had time for dusty old relics anymore.

Dipper had been absorbed in his book for a solid ten minutes when the bells above the door jingled. Well, it sounded less like a cheerful jingle and more like a church tower being strangled, the door to the shop having been thrown open hard enough to make a dent in the wall.

“Are you sure about this, Capo? We’re still in—“

“I’m sure about everything! You can go next door and get turned in if that’s what you want. Trust me; this is our best bet.”

“But, this is—“

“I know where we are!”

Shoes clomped across the floor, and Dipper looked up to find the muzzle of a pistol resting comfortably against his the bridge of his nose. His “how may I help you today” spiel died on his tongue.

The man holding the gun smiled. “Hello. We’re going to be hiding out in your shop for a bit.”

Dipper reeled back, nearly falling out of his chair, but the man caught him by the collar—gathering Dipper’s suspender straps in his fist like how one might heel a dog.

“Ah-ah-ah,” the man tutted. “See, this isn’t an offer; this is an order—note the gun. You obviously don’t deal with many business men.”

Dipper heard the click of a safety. “Business men?” The words came out higher than he had meant them.

Three men stood before him, including the one that had him by the collar. They each wore a full three-piece suit ensemble—shirt, vest, jacket—and each was armed. The one poised to shoot was the youngest, the other two were much taller and stockier, but you could tell by the way the others regarded him that he was in charge. Dipper could understand why. Despite his unfortunate stature, the man held quite the presence.

 _Gangsters,_ Dipper thought, _Mafia._

“Alright, here’s what’s gonna happen,” the leading man said, gently inching the muzzle of the gun up to Dipper’s forehead. “Me and my... business partners here need a place to lay low for a couple hours. You, lucky you, are going to provide that place for us.”

Dipper’s eyes crossed as he stared up the barrel of the gun, then up at the man wielding it. A set of sharp, amber eyes stared back.

“Pardon me?” Dipper asked.

The man sighed, clearly used to getting quicker results. “Do you have a back room we can use? A store room?”

“Uh, behind that door,” Dipper said, leaning his head to the right to point out a door under the stairs and behind the counter.

“It’ll do,” the man said and began barking orders. “You two, stay in that room until I tell you to come out. I don’t want to hear a peep, especially if you hear someone come into the shop. I’m going to stay here and make sure our friend doesn’t make any unauthorized calls.” The man turned back to Dipper. “There had better not be anyone else here right now.”

“I’m alone,” Dipper squeaked.

The man finally let go of Dipper’s collar. “Good.” Then he glanced back at his two lackeys. “One more thing? Do you have a medical kit?”

Dipper, in fact, did have a medical kit. He kept it squirreled away under the counter just in case anyone got mortally wounded looking at antique clocks or rusty watches.

He handed it over to the gangsters, one of which, Dipper noticed, was bleeding from their leg.

After the two lackeys were hidden away in the back room—Dipper prayed they wouldn’t break anything, but he wasn’t exactly in a position to be making demands—the man lowered the gun. Lowered, but did not holster. He twirled it absent-mindedly as he leaned back on the counter.

Dipper tried to breathe easy, but his heart was threatening to crawl out of his throat. He could still feel the muzzle of the pistol cold on his forehead. He noticed the man was staring at him.

“So, businessmen?” he managed.

The man grinned. “Exactly, businessmen. People of the people, you know? And as such, we take it in our best interests to be friendly.” He extended a hand. “The name’s Bill.” He pronounced it clearly, with two syllables, like he’d been practicing.

“Friendly?” asked Dipper, accepting the handshake from across the counter after a tense second.

Bill laughed. “Damn, you’re right. I’m sorry about the whole ‘let us in or I’ll shoot you’ deal, but we didn’t have time for you to say no. To level with you, I didn’t expect to find anyone in here! Anyways,” he said, dismissing his death threats like one might dismiss idle chatter about the weather. “What do they call you?”

“Dipper Pines.” Dipper knew he shouldn’t have replied, but there was something that compelled him to answer. Maybe it was Bill’s casual attitude, maybe his commanding aura, or maybe it was the fact that Bill had a goddamned gun and was part of the mob, but really who’s to say?

 All the same, Bill frowned. “Come again? Dipper Pines?”

Dipper gulped. ‘Dipper’ was about as genuine-sounding a name as John Smith. No one ever called him by his real name, but how was Bill supposed to know that?

Dipper wasn’t all that eager to find out what Mafia members did to those who lied to them, but just as he was about to correct himself, a thunder of footsteps came from the street. At first, he thought it was Mabel and her gal pals returning from their day out. His heart dropped from his throat to his stomach. He couldn’t let them get involved in... whatever this was.

But then Bill dove behind the counter, crashing past Dipper’s chair and nearly knocking him to the floor. Dipper floundered to right himself, thinking it was a miracle the gun didn’t go off and wondering what in the world had possessed Bill to smash his face into the floor.

Outside, a troop of men charged past the display window of the shop, pushing aside pedestrians and shouting. One of them rested his forehead on the glass, peering into the store. It was all Dipper could do to smile and act like there wasn’t a criminal lying winded at his feet.

The curious man squinted hard, but then one of his buddies tapped him on the shoulder and pointed upwards—at exactly what Dipper wasn’t sure. Then, much to Dipper’s surprise, they each gave him a wave and hurried onwards.

Dipper heard Bill groan and looked behind his chair to find him propping himself up in a sitting position against the wall and smoothing hopelessly at the creases in his suit. His fedora had skittered across the floor, but he made no move to retrieve it.

“Those weren’t policemen,” Dipper noted.

“Oh, you think it’s the bull that’s after me?” asked Bill. “No, they’re nothing to worry about. I mean, have you seen their hats? They’re hilarious; they look like French chefs!” He giggled. “Police chefs. Justice is served!”

Dipper gave him a look.

Now that the initial shock of been held at gunpoint had worn off, Dipper’s mind was ticking overtime trying to think of a way out his predicament. Now was as good a time as any—seeing as how both the goons were still in the back room and Bill was on the floor—and Dipper began inching his hand bit by bit towards the telephone on the wall.

Dipper heard the click again. “I said no calls, Pines.” Bill was aiming the gun at his back.

Dipper stiffened. “I wasn’t gonna—“

Bill didn’t let him finish. “Is that so? I suppose you just wanted to give your gal a ring, huh? Have a nice little chat?”

“I don’t have a—“

“Can it!” Bill’s voice was practically a gunshot in and of itself.

Dipper’s pulse pounded in his ears. The clock ticked overhead. A car rattled past on the street.

Then Bill chuckled. “Look at us, getting off on the wrong foot. It’s my fault really, though it wouldn’t kill you to be a little more talkative.”

“How long is it do you plan on staying?” asked Dipper, gripping onto the counter, his knuckles white.

“Oh, just until the hullabaloo outside dies down. And until my friends are done licking their wounds, too, there’s that. I’d guess about half an hour or so until we’re out of your inexcusably messy hair. Seriously, you do own a comb, right?”

Dipper wanted to scream. One minute Bill was threatening to lodge a bullet between his eyes, the next he was chastising him about his appearance. He reminded Dipper of a pan full of popcorn: a handful of tiny explosions waiting just until you’d let your guard down to pop. What was Bill’s deal?

“Half an hour?” asked Dipper. “Are you just going to sit here the whole time?”

“I don’t see why not. Hey, what’s this here?” Bill snatched a book off the floor, the one Dipper had been reading earlier. It must have been swept off the counter when Bill had hit the deck. He read the title and flipped through a few pages. “ _Flame and Shadow._ Huh, poetry.”

Dipper’s face reddened. He had always loved reading poems, but as a kid had been mocked for it. Young boys were supposed to climb trees and play at being soldiers, not wax poetic about the moon. Now that he was older, he was getting back into it, but he still clung to his old reservations.

Hesitantly, he turned back in his chair, relieved to see Bill had lowered the gun, and took the book back. “Yeah, it’s, uh, Sarah Teasdale.”

“That means absolutely nothing to me. You like poetry?”

“A bit.”

“Splendid. Read to me.”

Dipper coughed. “What?”

“We’ve got half an hour to brutally murder and I don’t feel like spilling my entire life’s story. What’s your brilliant idea?”

Dipper had to admire Bill’s choice of words. He certainly managed to get his point across.

“Alright, fine.”

Dipper flipped through the book, carefully smoothing down any crumpled pages with his thumb, until he found a dog-eared passage and started reading, keeping his eyes locked straight ahead at the street all the while.

 _Death went up the hall_  
   Unseen by every one,  
  Trailing twilight robes  
   Past the nurse and the nun.

 _He paused at every door_  
   And listened to the breath  
  Of those who did not know  
   How near they were to Death.

 _Death went up the hall_  
   Unseen by nurse and nun;  
  He passed by many a door—  
   But he entered one.

Dipper hated his reading voice—he hated his normal voice besides; it had always been too high-pitched—and he put his emphasis in all the wrong places, and once he was finished, he waited for Bill to pick him apart.

“God, that was depressing,” was all Bill said. “And here I thought poetry was all love stories and sunshine.”

Dipper squelched the laugh that bubbled up from his chest. “Not when there’s a gun aimed at my back it isn’t.”

 “You slay me,” Bill chuckled. “You really think I’m gonna kill you? Can you imagine what a mess that would make? I mean, you’ve got a really nice rug back here.”

Dipper glanced over his shoulder. Bill was tracing the pattern on the carpet with his finger. His other hand was clutched at his side, and Dipper saw ripped fabric and flecks of blood, things he hadn’t had the patience to notice until now.

“Jesus, you’re bleeding!” he all but shouted. “Did you get shot?”

Quick as a cat, Bill sprang up from the floor, clamping his hand over Dipper’s mouth. Dipper let out a muffled cry of surprise.

“You listen here, Pines, and you listen good,” Bill growled. “I’m not bleeding. I’m not hurt. I don’t get hurt.”

Dipper glanced down at Bill’s side and the creeping stain. It was probably shallow, otherwise there would have been much more blood, but he still couldn’t justify Bill’s overreaction.

Dipper tried to squirm away, but Bill held fast. “I don’t expect you to understand, but I’ve got a reputation to uphold. I have to command respect. Twenty-three jobs to my name and not a scratch. Not. A. Scratch. If you ruin that for me I swear to God I will track you down and personally fill your mouth full of lead.”

Dipper was saved a strangling by the two gangsters re-emerging from the back room.

“...the Golden Boy will want to see this.”

“Hey, Capo. We found something interesting.”

Bill all but threw Dipper aside in favour of chewing out the two new targets, but he gave Dipper one last glare. The message was clear. _Keep your trap shut._

“What are you two idiots doing out here?” Bill demanded, placing a hand on his hip, covering his gash and disguising it as confidence. He ran a hand over his mussed hair. “I told you to stay in there. Do you want a smack?”

Dipper wondered briefly why the two older men were taking orders from someone both younger and smaller than them—it certainly made for a comedic sight. Whatever the reason, the two goons didn’t look happy about it.

The man whose leg was now wrapped in a swath of bandages jerked his thumb at the door. “We’ve got something back here that might be worth your while to see. I think our little friend here knows more than he’s letting on.” They exchanged a knowing look and Bill’s expression curdled.

He glanced down at Dipper, and jolt went down his spine. “Oh, is that so?” Bill asked. “Well, I can’t wait to see what it is Mr. Pines here has neglected to show us.”

Upon the word ‘show’, Bill yanked Dipper to his feet by the arm and hauled him to the back room, the two lackeys following suit.

The space was cramped with all four of them together, and the light bulb that lit the space was on the verge of shining its last. Sagging shelves were pushed against all walls, but were threadbare and covered in grime.

Nearly all of the shop’s stock was kept out front for customers to ogle, so Dipper had questioned their need for a store room, even a tiny one. Mabel had suggested they convert it into a space for keeping animals, but Dipper had shot the idea down on account of high costs and common sense.

The room was nothing special, and Dipper was stumped as to what the gangsters were so worked up about.

“Fascinating,” said Bill once they had all piled in. “Pines has got a secret dust fetish. What exactly is so interesting about this place?”

“It’s a storage room,” Dipper blanked. “I don’t understand what’s going on at all.”

“You had better have found a dead body back here,” said Bill. “Or else the police will when they come looking for you tomorrow.”

“Oh, boss man,” said the bandaged gangster in mock-offense. “Are you really so tired of us that you’d take the word of someone you’ve just met over ours?” He smirked and went to kneel at the base of one of the bookcases. “Looks like he and us aren’t so different after all, anyways.”

He fiddled with something under the shelves until a sound like a bolt being slid aside clicked high through the room.

Dipper gaped as the bookcase swung open on hinges hidden behind the wall. Behind the frame was darkness, the light bulb doing little to illuminate the space beyond. The sound of the bookcase swinging open echoed about, so even though Dipper couldn’t see anything, he knew the space must be massive.

“What?” he sputtered. “How?”

“You tell us,” said the bandaged gangster. He turned to look up at Bill. “Are you sure he didn’t make any calls?”

Bill glared. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Doubting my ability to shoot people in the face. He didn’t make any calls.”

The gangster held up his hands. “Alright, alright. So, Book Boy, what’s all this about?”

Dipper gulped. He’d been worried before, but now that the gangsters had discovered a real reason to kill him, he was downright terrified. And what was worse was that he really hadn’t had a clue that the room had existed. The how, why, what, and when all evaded him.

“I don’t—“ he fumbled. “I think it looks like a bomb-shelter?”

“You think, huh? You think? Stop being smart and tell us what you know! They already got to you, didn’t they? They’re already getting you to do their dirty work. And knowing the way they deal, they’re paying you diddly squat, too.”

Dipper crumbled under the verbal barrage. “They? Who’s ‘they’? I don’t know anything, I swear! Oh, God...”

The gangster went for the gun under his jacket. “You’re a better actor than I first took you for, I’ll give you that, but I suppose that’s why you’re here, why they put you here?”

Dipper tried retreating back into the store front, but his escape was blocked by the second gangster. A mouse trapped by a troop of cats, he quivered. Still, he had dignity and tried to keep his voice even.

“I don’t. Know what. You’re talking about.”

“Wonderful last words.”

Suddenly, Bill was between Dipper and the bandaged gangster, his hand still on his hip, his stare dead cold. “He’s telling the truth.”

The bandaged gangster took a step back. “Oh?”

“‘Oh?’” Bill mocked. “Yes, ‘oh?’. I’ve been out there for a good while interrogating him and he lies about as well as a four-year-old. This is only his fifth day on the job; he was hired about a week ago and is completely clueless about the inventory. Trust me, he don’t know from nothing.”

Dipper blinked. Bill was covering for him. Why?

Finally, the two gangsters folded, holstering their weapons.

Satisfied, Bill strutted back to the bookcase, leaning inside the cavernous room. He felt along the wall until he hit a switch and lights blazed to life over head.

The room resembled a hangar, with a concrete floor, metal girders running the length of the ceiling and chains that hung to the floor. Windows decorated the upper walls, but were plastered over with wooden boards.

Dipper realized it was probably located underneath the shop opposite theirs, but that place had been closed for years, and the garage appeared reasonably well kept, as opposed to Pines’ Fine Antiques which was covered in a perpetual layer of dust.

Dipper was the only one to notice this, however, as the instant the lights came on Bill announced, “See? Garage. Whoop-de-flippin’-do.” He flicked the lights back off. “We’re wasting time. We should go.”

He glowered at the two other gangsters, daring them to challenge him. Though they both looked cross, neither did.

They walked back into the shop, Dipper trailing behind and biting his cheek.

“Street looks clear,” said Bill. “I’d say it’s been long enough.” He opened the door to the shop, letting the roar of street noise flood in. “After you, gentlemen.” He spat the last word like acid, and Dipper could tell that Bill fully intended to have words with them later.

Once the two goons were out the door, Bill turned to Dipper, smiling. He went to tip his hat, realized it was missing, and shrugged. “Be seeing you,” he promised.

The bell above the door chimed and he was gone.

Dipper found Bill’s hat on the floor several minutes later, but kept it. Somehow, chasing down a gangster to return their lost property didn’t quite appeal to him after the ordeal he had just been put through.

Besides, if Bill wanted his hat back, he could always come get it.


	2. Drowning in Red Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The cat came back the very next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so, so much to everyone who left comments and kudos! What to one person is a little thing is to another person a much bigger and much appreciated thing.
> 
> I'll do my best to make sure that this story doesn't disappoint!

Dipper hadn’t seen the surface of his kitchen table in two months. He remembered it might have been painted blue, but all he saw now was white. White papers with crumpled edges and impossibly high numbers stamped in black, piles and piles of them that threatened to topple over at the slightest gust of wind.

At his side was a notebook filled with scribbles, mostly zeroes, but the zeroes were always predisposed by other numbers. The other numbers didn’t matter though; it was the zeroes that bothered him the most.

He chewed the end of a pencil as he pored over them, as if staring at his problems would make them go away.

The earliest strands of daylight filtered through the window, and what would become the morning rush outside was for now only a light trickle of pattering feet.

In the other room, Mabel was dressing for the morning, all the while giving a blow by blow account of the day before.

“...and at that point there was no stopping us, so when Paz wanted to show us this really neat place by City Center, we hijacked the telephone in a deli to call her driver and— Are you even listening to me, Dip? This is where it gets good.”

“Hm?” Dipper realized he must have been nodding off, but to be fair he hadn’t caught much sleep last night.

After Bill had left, and after Dipper had pulled himself together, he had spent the rest of the day exploring his newfound garage. Well, Bill had called it a garage, but Dipper doubted that it had ever been used for storing cars seeing as the room lacked any doors big enough to drive through.

It was just as well since Dipper didn’t own a car, and—he gave the papers another death stare—it didn’t look like he’d be able to afford one anytime soon either.

He took a sip of coffee to wash away the taste of pencil eraser. “Sorry, Mabel. I’m just a little...” He tried to pick a word out of his sleepy haze. “Preoccupied,” he decided.

Mabel came flouncing over, brushing out her bobbed hair. “Aw, nuts,” she pouted once she saw the table. “This again. Why does everything have to cost so much? Being adult is the worst.”

Dipper nodded, leafing through the papers.

“You know,” said Mabel. “I actually wanted to talk to you about this. I had an idea.”

“We’re not crawling back to Grunkle Stan if that’s what you mean,” sighed Dipper. “We told him that we could handle running the shop and we’re not going back on our word.”

Mabel rolled her eyes. “I know that, sheesh. That’s not my idea, though you have to admit that retirement doesn’t really suit him.”

Dipper shrugged. “It’s not his fault he’s old.”

“Yeah, and it’s not your fault you’re a horrible salesman.”

“Low blow, Mabel.”

Dipper knew he was the main reason why Pines’ Fine Antiques was threatening to go under, but he just wasn’t the showman type. He was more suited to checking stock and calculating prices. Unfortunately, it was a team effort, and Mabel couldn’t work on her own 24/7. Since hiring someone else was out of the question, Dipper had to grin and bear it, and the anxiety of keeping the store afloat was eating him alive. How had Grunkle Stan done it?

Mabel pursed her lips. “Right. Sorry.” She sighed. “Look, I’m just as worried as you are, but I’m just not so mope-y about it.”

She retreated back to her room to finish dressing, and her normal, bubbly voice returned. “Anywhos, I was telling a story and I had an idea! Story time first. So, Paz,” Mabel paused. “Uh, Pacifica. You remember her?”

“Blonde, rude, rich?”

“That’s her. So, Paz brings us to this restaurant—or at least I thought it was a restaurant. I mean, it wasn’t the kind of ritzy place that I know she usually goes to, so I was a little confused.” Mabel’s story became muffled as she pulled a dress over her head. “But we go in and there’s music and all these people dancing and it’s a speakeasy!”

To his credit, Dipper managed not to spew coffee all over the table. “Mabel! Those places are illegal!”

Mabel’s voice dripped sarcasm. “Oh, no! Drinking is outlawed? Dancing in an illegal alcohol den will get me arrested? Don’t be such a wet blanket.”

“Wet blanket?” Dipper sputtered. “I don’t care about the police, Mabel. Do you know what kinds of people run those places?”

“People who apparently used to get on really well with Grunkle Stan,” Mabel said, leaning against the door frame to the kitchen, sporting a green dress and a tasteful string of fake pearls. “A couple of them knew him. They bought me free drinks.”

“You let strange men buy you alcohol, and then you drank it.”

“You’re just jealous because I’ve been out partaking in criminal activity while you’re holed up at the shop all day.”

_Tell me,_ Dipper thought. _Does harbouring members of the Mafia count as criminal activity?_

Dipper had decided against telling Mabel about his surprise visit yesterday. Knowing her, she’d see it more as an excellent adventure as opposed to as the terrifying brush with death that it truly was. This conversation only gave more credence to this theory. After that remark however, he was tempted.

Dipper rubbed his eyes. “Let’s just both agree that neither of us want to continue this conversation and change the subject. What was your idea?”

“About that,” Mabel said, giggling nervously. “So, you know how I’ve been looking for a second job, but no one will hire me because they all think I should be at home cleaning and doing other such womanly things? Turns out the guys at the speakeasy are a little more progressive and—“

“Mabel, no.”

Dipper had never been a fan of speakeasys or the people who frequented them, but yesterday’s encounter had solidified their status as despicable in his mind.

“What?” Mabel demanded indignantly. “I’d be able to work at night once the shop is closed and I’m attractive enough to get tips. I could be a bartender!”

“Absolutely not. Those places are seedy and full of horrible people, run by horrible people. I know we need the money, but I’d sooner sell my soul to the machine factories before I let you visit one of those places again!”

Mabel’s arms trembled at her sides. “You don’t run my life, Dipper! You’re my brother, not my husband!”

“I’m just trying to keep you safe!”

“I’m perfectly capable of doing that on my own!”

From downstairs, the bell on the shop door jingled.

Mabel’s face scrunched in fury. “You didn’t lock the door?!”

Dipper’s brain had been fried all of yesterday. He shrugged helplessly, but he was secretly glad for any escape from this conversation. Getting the last word over Mabel was about as likely as a million dollars magically appearing stacked on the table.

“I forgot,” was all he could think to say.

Both Mabel’s eyebrows shot upwards in a moment of pure exasperation. “And who’s the one who’s prattling on about safety here? I’ll go take care of the customer, you...” She eyed Dipper’s clothes. “You make yourself presentable, got it?”

Dipper took another long sip of coffee and nodded. He didn’t need a mirror to know that he was a mess. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his day clothes last night to sleep, and he was still wearing them now. That, coupled with his normal staple of fussy hair and baggy eyes, resulted in him looking uncannily hung-over despite never touching a drop of alcohol in his life. All he needed to do was walk into a wall for someone to call the cops.

The twin’s apartment was located above the shop, and all it took was a flight of stairs to take one from their tiny living room to behind the counter.

As Dipper brushed his teeth, he could hear Mabel chatting with the customer downstairs.

“Morning!” How Mabel could be so perky so early in the day was beyond Dipper. “How’re you doing today?”

“Not too bad, could be better...”

Dipper spat toothpaste. That voice was familiar, with a lazy drawl to it, like melted caramel, the too sweet kind that makes you cough.

“...my side’s been giving me some trouble, but if that was my biggest worry I’d have gone to a doctor!” Laughter. “No, I came here looking for—“

In an instant, Dipper was on the staircase, toothpaste foam still dribbling down his chin, staring down at the grinning face of Bill the gangster.

“Dipper,” Mabel gasped, scandalized.

Dipper ignored his sister, instead levelling his gaze with Bill. There was a loaded pause before Dipper wiped the foam from his mouth and found his tongue. “Hello, sir,” he said. “I haven’t seen you around here before. How can we help you?”

Dipper prayed that Bill would get the message. Whatever Bill wanted from him, he didn’t want Mabel to be involved.

Mabel glared daggers at her brother. “Dipper,” she ground out. “I’m taking care of business. Go back upstairs.”

“I just thought I should be down here,” Dipper said, scrambling for an excuse. “You know, seeing as you’re such an amazing salesman, I thought maybe I could learn something.” He had meant to be flattering, but realized that it probably came out more bitter than anything.

Mabel turned back to Bill, who she no doubt saw as an everyday well-dressed gentleman. “I’m sorry about my brother.” She smiled sweetly. “I have no idea what’s gotten into him.”

Bill had an amused gleam in his eye that made Dipper want to punch him in the face. “No, no,” he said, waving Dipper to come down the stairs. “By all means. The more the merrier.”

Dipper didn’t feel the least bit thankful for the save as he descended the stairs, tucking in his shirt and noticing too late he had only one sock on.

“So,” he said once he had both feet planted on the floor. “What brings you to our little store at such an ungodly hour?”

Mabel elbowed her brother in the stomach. “And here I thought you wanted to learn. Here’s your first lesson: don’t be a jerk.”

 “She’s right,” Bill deadpanned. “I feel deeply offended.”

He and Mabel shared a laugh.

Dipper drummed his fingers on the counter. It was too early for this. He wished he could run back upstairs and at least grab his coffee, but he didn’t want to leave Mabel alone with Bill even for a second.

“But really,” said Mabel, stepping in front of her brother as if trying to push him back up the stairs. “What can I help you with? Are you buying or are you selling? Because if you’re buying, boy, do we have a treat for you!”

She skipped out from behind the counter and began a quick scan of the shelves. Holding up a tiny doll kept in a glass case, she announced, “Like this little lady here? I’m ninety percent sure she’s secretly alive. She flips you off when you’re not looking.”

“Charming,” remarked Bill, and Dipper twitched when he couldn’t tell whether Bill was talking about the doll or Mabel.

“Okay,” Dipper practically shouted, much too loud for their small shop. “So, what is it then? Buying or selling? What do you want?”

_What do you want from me?_

“Oh my god, Dipper,” Mabel snapped. “You know what this is? This is the exact opposite of a good salesman. I know you’re trying to annoy me, but we have a customer here, a guest if you will, and you are being the picture of rude. Can’t our sibling spats wait until we don’t need the money?”

Dipper wanted to fold in on himself out of frustration. He wanted desperately to out Bill as the dangerous criminal that he was and get him out of the shop, but at the same time Dipper still had no idea why he was here, if he was armed, if he was even alone... There were too many variables. He needed to ride it out, to see where this was going. And most importantly, he needed to keep Mabel from kicking him back upstairs, which meant being civil.

He gave a long sigh. “Sorry.”

Mabel placed the doll back on its shelf. “Better.” She turned back to Bill, who was intently watching their back and forth and doing a terrible job of hiding his smile. “Again, I’m so, so sorry about this, but seeing as you’re still here, I’m guessing we haven’t scared you away.”

“Not at all,” said Bill. “I’ve dealt with far worse.”

“Are you looking for anything specific today?”

“Yes,” said Bill without hesitation. “A gift for a friend. Do you have any vintage paintings? Something that might look nice above a fireplace?”

Mabel nodded. “Absolutely! I know just what you’re looking for. I’ll be right back.”

The paintings were kept rolled up in the back of the store behind several layers of mirrors and walking canes, and Mabel tripped over a copper bowl as she squeezed between two bookcases trying to get to them. “I’m okay!” she reassured them, before continuing to root for the pictures.

As soon as she was out of sight, Bill leaned towards Dipper, dropping his voice to a barely audible whisper. “Look, I’m not here to rob you.”

“Really?” asked Dipper, lowering his voice in kind. “The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind ‘til now, actually.”

“Cut the sass and talk fast,” Bill said. “Your sister’s one heck of a bearcat and those paintings won’t keep her busy forever. I came here with a proposition.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” was Dipper’s immediate response.

“I know I caught you at a bad time—“

“It’s seven in the morning; that’s a given, but that has nothing to do with it.”

Bill ignored him. “I caught you at a bad time, but that’s fine. I figured you’d want to talk later anyways.”

With that, Bill reached inside his jacket and produced a stack an inch tall of crisp paper money, wrapped with a rubber band.

Dipper stared at the cash like it was a Martian from space, which it may as well have been seeing as both objects were equally alien to him. Surely those bills didn’t have twenties stamped into them.

“Consider this an advance payment,” said Bill. “I’d like to talk further, but maybe a little later? Tonight, perhaps?”

Dipper couldn’t take his eyes off the money. “Is that real?”

Bill smirked. “It’s a date then,” he said just as Mabel returned, clutching about twelve different paintings under her arms.

Dipper swept the cash off the counter and into his lap, clutching it in his sweaty hands like it might somehow disappear at a moment’s notice. He said a silent prayer of thanks when Mabel didn’t see.

“Voila!” She declared, presenting her haul. “And these are just a few of my favourites. Which—“

Bill cut her off with a wave of his hand. “On second thought, my friend is an asshole. I don’t think they deserve a gift.”

Mabel blinked. “Come again?”

“It’s been wonderful meeting you,” Bill said, backing towards the door. “And if I ever need a haunted doll to flip me off, I know where to come!” He said this with pure enthusiasm before ducking out the door and disappearing into the gathering traffic outside.

There was a stunned silence.

Mabel let the paintings drop to the floor and marched up to her brother. “What did you tell him?”

“I— nothing!”

“God damn it, Dipper! We needed that customer!”

Dipper thumbed at the wodge of cash under the counter. Maybe not...

Mabel groaned. “It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s gone. Just... go back upstairs and clean yourself up.”

Dipper went to pick up the paintings, but Mabel stopped him. “I’ve got this, bro bro. Change your shirt, then we can open shop, okay?”

Mabel’s smile was forced, all the energy she used to charm customers sucked away.

Dipper wanted to comfort her, to pull out the bundle of cash and declare that they were rich, but no, that was stupid and impulsive and foolish.

He remembered how his heart had hammered yesterday, how he’d waited as the seconds stretched on like hours, waiting for the gun to go off. He never wanted Mabel to be in that position. He had to keep her as far away from any of it as possible.

He fled up into the apartment, locking himself in the bathroom. Once he had checked and double-checked the lock, he pulled out the stack of cash and started counting, but his nervous fingers fumbled and he lost count around twenty.

“Holy hell,” he muttered to himself.

This was enough to foot their bills for at least a month, and Bill had said that this was only an advance payment. That meant that there would be more funds coming if Dipper complied.

He kept counting, but stopped when he found a note slotted in between the money.

_10:30 pm tonight, Norhill Park  -B_

A meeting place and time. The money didn’t come without a price.

Dipper gave the man in the mirror a hard look. Anything to keep Mabel out of the speakeasys and away from people like Bill.

He turned the card over.

_And for God’s sake, brush your hair!_

 Dipper frowned, tucking the note into his pocket. Then he stashed the money under his mattress and went about preparing himself for what he knew was set to be a long, long day.


	3. Deals Done in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter wherein the events hinted at in the title do in fact come to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the comments and kudos! It's great to see so many 1920s-loving kindred spirits out there. I've been straying a bit from the beaten path as of late, but I promise that there will be plenty of mafia cliches in the coming chapters.
> 
> Also, the update schedule goes something like ((MOTIVATION + INSPIRATION) / TIME) - SCHOOL. I'm shooting for once a week, but school is ever the variable.

Norhill Park was located near City Center, a clean rectangle of green in the busy mess of greys and browns that was Chicago. It one of those parks that was like a miniature forest, the deciduous trees already ablaze with colour in the crisp autumn air, the kind of park that was populated predominantly by squirrels, ducks, and old folks that feed breadcrumbs to pigeons.

Dipper’s first impression of the park was the wrought iron fence and the looming trees that decorated the very entrance, and so far it was his only impression.

He had arrived twenty minutes earlier than the note had stated, found an alley to watch the gate from, and had been waiting ever since.

Norhill Park opened onto a residential street—not all that far from the commercial district that Pines’ Fine Antiques called home—and since it was so late, Dipper didn’t expect to see many people out and about. But, much to his surprise, every so often a person would walk through the iron gates and into the park.

The anxiety that was nibbling at his brain blew this small fact into infinite horrifying possibilities: What if they were gang members? Was he being set up? What if the minute he entered the park he was jumped?

Dipper was usually a rational man, but tonight, under the flickering street lights, about to meet a high ranking member of the mob, his imagination got the best of him.

Every time someone passed by on the sidewalk, he would press himself a little further into the brick wall.

He had decided to stake out the park entrance after realizing that he should be more cautious about Bill. During their last two encounters, Bill had surprised him, but this time Dipper vowed to do what he could to take matters into his own hands. He wasn’t going to be Bill’s puppet to play with.

“What the hell are you doing down there?”

Dipper shot a foot up in the air, knocking his forehead against the brick. Dazed, he felt something be snatched off his head.

“What do you know? I’ve been looking for this.”

Dipper looked up to watch Bill—with the precision and care of a surgeon—place his hat snugly over his head. So much for taking matters into his own hands.

Dipper wasn’t exactly sure why he had worn Bill’s hat to the meeting. He had actually thought about keeping it as a sort of trophy, but had decided against it.

“Hey,” greeted Dipper shakily, taken off guard by Bill’s ambush.

Bill sized him up, his gaze lingering on Dipper’s hair, which Dipper had neglected to comb out of spite.

 “That’s what you’re wearing?” Bill asked.

Bill was outfitted in his usual formal getup and Dipper felt underdressed by comparison. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have the money to buy nice clothes—he certainly could have it he wanted to—fancy shirts and shiny shoes simply weren’t high on his priority list. Mind, they could be now, what with the money Bill was waggling under his nose, but all the same vanity was not his style.

As such, the only formal wear that fit him were the few jackets that Grunkle Stan had left behind when he had moved out. Besides the clothes being about five sizes too big, the few that could be fixed with a well-placed belt smelt of old man, and Dipper preferred his everyday clothes anyway.

It wasn’t as if he was trying to impress anyone.

He picked himself up, brushing off his knit vest. “You expected my Sunday best?”

Bill let slip a subtle smile. “Not really.”

“How’s your side been treating you?”

Dipper loved Bill’s startled twitch. It gave him immense satisfaction to disturb the man, even in such a tiny way.

But Bill’s falter lasted less than half a second. “It’s as fine as ever, thank you very much. And how’s your beautiful sister?”

“She’s... okay.” Dipper made a mental note to never play poker. “So, what’s this about an offer? I’m guessing you want something in exchange for the money and aren’t just giving out the goodness of your heart, right?”

Bill cast a glance over his shoulder. “Not so loud, sheesh. Yes, there’s a catch, but we should talk elsewhere. You ever hear people say that ‘the walls have ears’?”

Dipper had assumed the question to be rhetorical, and there was an awkward pause before he answered. “Yes?”

“Well, they’re all a bunch of filthy liars,” Bill snapped. “If the walls really did have ears, it would be a heck of a lot easier to tell if you were being listened to or not. Unfortunately, we seem to be lacking in that department, and so certain precautions must be taken.”

He leapt into the desolate street, gesturing like a circus ring master at the grand gates to the park. “Shall we?”

Dipper hesitated. “You’re not luring me in there just to kill me, are you?”

Bill tapped his foot. “Don’t sound so desperate, Pines. If I wanted you dead, I would have killed you in your shop when I first had the chance. Would have been a lot less messy that way. You haven’t learned anything new since then that would make me change my mind, so the only reason I’d try to kill you now is if I had made a mistake, and I don’t make mistakes.”

Dipper gulped. “Right.”

He expected Bill to walk behind him, like a guard leading a prisoner at gunpoint, but instead he strolled beside him as if they were two chums out on the town.

A shiver went down Dipper’s back as they passed through the gates and into the forest. The oaks and maples stretched high, eclipsing the stars, seeming to seal the park away from the rest of the city.

Stone turned to gravel underfoot as they walked in silence.

Just as Dipper had decided that Bill was about to pull him behind a bush and decapitate him, the trees parted and the babble of excited conversation could be heard.

“What the Dickens?”

The path opened onto a meadow. Lamps flickered at its edges, and at its center sat a bandstand gilded in vines, the park’s local flora having appropriated it as a trellis. People milled about, some standing, others sitting on the benches or the grass. It was quite a large gathering for so late at night.

Dipper heard the sharp squeak of a violin and saw that a quartet of musicians was tuning up to play.

He turned back to Bill. “What is going on?”

“Late-night concert.” Bill shrugged. “Though I doubt any of them are actually here for the music. It’s more of a chance for them to make-out somewhere other than in their cars for once.”

Dipper was glad it was dark; the night hid his creeping blush. “Yes, but what are we doing here?”

“Talking. Do you think any of them will be bothered to listen in on us? Of course not. We could be talking about war secrets or the real reason the Titanic sank, and none of them will care in the slightest. Plus, we won’t look out of place as opposed to if we were all alone.”

Dipper shook his head, noticing the abundance of young couples in the crowd. “What kind of mobster does business at a midnight concert in the park?”

Bill smiled ear to ear. “Precisely. I really am clever, aren’t I?”

“Don’t expect me to pat you on the back or anything.”

Bill laughed, and began his march up the gradual hill at the back of the field. “Well, lookie there! Pine Tree here has a tongue after all!”

“Pine—What? Hey!”

But Bill wasn’t slowing down, and Dipper had to jog to catch up to him.

The top of the hill afforded a better view of the bandstand, and when they reached the top Bill took off his suit jacket and laid it on the ground.

Dipper made a point to ignore the gesture and parked himself on the grass instead. It had rained the previous night and the ground was wet.

Bill didn’t sit on the jacket either, and they ended up with it left between them, a visible boundary that Dipper hoped Bill would respect. And now that he had taken his jacket off, Dipper saw that Bill was in fact unarmed—a holster would have been easy to spot strapped over his vest, but was noticeably absent.

“So,” Dipper said. “About this offer...”

Bill lay back on the grass, his hands behind his head. “Relax, the show hasn’t started yet. I don’t start talking until people stop listening.”

 “Isn’t that a bit counter-productive?”

“Not all of us are born poets, Pines.”

Dipper laughed weakly. “I’m not a poet. I like to read, but I can’t write to save my life. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Bill closed his eyes. “What a shame. You’ve got a really good voice, too.”

At the bandstand, a bass plucked a low scale, the notes emanating like a heartbeat across the green.

“Is— is that what you tell people right before you kill them?” asked Dipper. “Because that sounds like something a villain would say in the movies.”

“Want to know a secret?” asked Bill. “I only lie when I have to. It messes with more people that way.” Bill opened one eye. “And I don’t feel like I have to lie to you.”

“Because I’m too stupid to know what do with your information even if you gave it to me?”

“No, no,” Bill assured, then he smiled. “Well, maybe a little.” Sitting up slightly, he glared at the musicians who were still fiddling with their instruments. “This lot seems fairly incompetent, so we could be here for a while.” He tilted his head to one side like how a puppy dog might plead for treats. “You don’t happen to have your book on you, do you?”

Dipper frowned. He wanted this meeting to be over and done with as soon as possible, but Bill seemed set to dilly dally to his heart’s content. Dipper steeled his nerve.

_For Mabel._

“Sorry, no. I didn’t anticipate having to entertain you a second time.” He took a deep breath. “But, I do have a couple things memorized.”

Bill lay back down. “Hit me.”

Dipper thought for a moment, his fingernails digging into the soft earth. Then he began, Wild Star by Witter Bynner.

_There is a star whose bite is certain death_

_While the moon but makes you mad—_

_So run from stars till you are out of breath_

_On a spring night, my lad,_

_Or slip among the shadow of a pine_

_And hide facedown from the sky_

_And never stir and never make a sign_

_Till the wild star goes by_

Dipper looked to Bill for a reaction, but he hadn’t budged from his position on the grass, his body still enough to pass for dead. But no, there was the gentle rise and fall of his chest, a twitch of the nose, the tap of a finger.

Bill flicked his eyes open and caught Dipper staring. “You done?”

Dipper nodded, suddenly unable to pry his gaze away from the mingling crowd. A violin gave a shriek like an angered bird and made him flinch.

“Good grief,” Bill said, righting himself and going to dig through the pockets of his jacket. “I take back everything I said about your voice. You need to loosen up a bit.”

Dipper laughed incredulously. “Are you kidding me? You do remember why you dragged me here, right?”

Something metal hit him square in the face. “Gah!”

Bill smirked. “Like I said, loosen up.”

“What is...” Dipper rubbed his nose and picked up the makeshift projectile. It took him a second to realize what it was. When he did, he yelped, dropping it.

“Jesus, Pines!” Bill guffawed. “It’s just a flask.”

“And I suppose you’re about to tell me there’s water in there or something? You just carry that stuff with you where ever you go?”

“Who doesn’t?” Bill scooped the flask off the ground, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink, unabashedly throwing his head back. He wiped his mouth. “Just so you know, I don’t normally drink on the job. It’s not a good idea to be getting smashed when you’re in my line of work, but I don’t think you to be the type to blow a man’s brains out.”

Bill reached the flask out across their jacket-divider.

Dipper held out his hands in protest. “Uh, no thanks.”

Bill shrugged and took another sip. “Suit yourself. You’re lucky not to have anything to drink about yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’d have to be a psychopath to have killed twenty-eight people and feel no remorse.”

Dipper was glad he had refused the drink, because if he hadn’t he would have spewed it all over the grass. “Twenty-eight?” he sputtered.

“Not all of us get to inherit a shop and live easy, Pines. Some of us have to work hard to get to where we are.” Bill paused to screw the lid back onto his flask. “So yes, twenty-eight. How else do you get people to take you seriously?”

Dipper didn’t think a kill streak was the best way to earn respect, but then he thought back to the two thugs that had accompanied Bill in the shop. Had they only been listening to him because they were afraid? His reign of terror couldn’t have been absolute, however, as the two men had still managed plenty of snark. Or maybe that was just how one tended to act when one’s superior was a good half-foot and five years short on them.

A soft melody drifted from the bandstand, and Dipper practically melted in relief when the rest of the band took up the tune and the show began.

The couples that were milling around congregated on the grass, staking out dry patches and sitting together.

The music swelled and he turned back to look at Bill. “Are we going to get to the point now?”

Bill nodded up at the starless sky. “If you insist.” He slipped his jacket over his shoulder and scooted closer. “So, I’ve given you a stack of cash. What do you think I want you to do?”

“Something illegal, I’m supposing,” Dipper said. “Otherwise, why would you go to all the trouble of having us meet in a park? Why all the secrecy?”

“Eh, you’re half right,” said Bill. “I’m not going to have you smuggling alcohol or drugs or anything if that’s what you were thinking.”

Dipper had been thinking exactly that. “That’s— that’s good.”

“No kidding! Hey, do you remember that little backroom we found yesterday? Do you have anything you want to tell me about that?”

Dipper bit at the inside of his cheek. “I was telling you the truth. I really didn’t know it was back there.”

“I believe you.” Bill scanned the crowd. Safe in the fact that no one was paying attention to them, he continued. “Okay, here’s the story. My people are preparing to receive a rather large shipment soon and we’re running out of space in our warehouses. It’s a nightmare, I swear. There are crates everywhere, we’ve stocked our establishments to the brim, and we can’t just leave this stuff anywhere. It’s a very delicate product and it needs to be handled with care.”

“You have too much booze is what you’re saying.”

“Yes, Sherlock Holmes,” Bill muttered. “How ever did you put that one together?”

“And so you need more storage space...” Dipper trailed off as he put two and two together. “Oh no.”

“We wouldn’t need the space for very long,” said Bill. “Just until the shipment comes in and we can get a figure on how much product we’re dealing with. This is big for my people, the deal with this company. We need it to go through.”

Dipper shook his head frantically. “I said no. No no no. I’m not going to let you store illegal alcohol in the back of my shop. What if the police find it?”

Bill laughed so loud that some of the audience members broke away from their partners to glare at him. He waited until they turned away. “Sorry, I just forget that some people are still afraid of the bull. Hysterical what you people can convince yourselves of. Nine out of ten times a cop’s gonna be corrupt, I promise you.”

“Then if it’s not the police I have to worry about, then—“

“Look,” Bill interrupted. “If you don’t want to do this, just give back the money, but I’m telling you this is an easy job. This is easy money. It’s like you’re renting out an apartment, only I’m going to be paying you a lot more than any renter would.”

Dipper wavered. “How long would it be for?”

“A week at the least, a month at the most. Depends.”

“And you’d pay me?”

“The same amount I gave you this morning, every week for as long as needed.”

“Sounds fair.” Dipper tried to sound indifferent, but his insides were bubbling with nervous champagne. He almost wasn’t comfortable even thinking about that much money. “And you’re sure that it’s not going to be dangerous?”

“Don’t worry,” Bill said. “I’ll make sure you stay safe.”

Hiding crates of illegal alcohol didn’t sound difficult or dangerous, but after his experience these last few days, Dipper was willing to believe that anything that could go wrong would go wrong. He wasn’t a risk taker, but some things were once in a lifetime.

 “Fine.” Dipper only noticed that he was clenching his fist when he went to extend it. Relaxing his hand, he offered it forward. “It’s a deal then.”

Bill accepted the hand, his white grin practically glowing in the dark. “Glad to be working with you, Pines.”

As they shook, a gust of wind picked up and scattered the first leaves of autumn over the meadow like tiny embers, tumbling down, looking for a fire to start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, me again. I didn't want to put this at the start of the chapter because it's a bit of a bother. 
> 
> Billdip has been coming under fire recently, the attackers using all their usual points--though I have a feeling they'll be exhausting them soon. There's drama, insults flying, reports being filed... People are jumping ship (literally) to Billford, and that's fine. 
> 
> I just wanted to say that if I ever stop writing this fic, it'll be for much deeper personal reasons, or simply a time crunch. I've set out to tell this story to the best of my abilities, and I'll be damned if some uneducated walnuts are going to sway my course. 
> 
> That is all. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.


	4. Let the Bottles Roll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A game, a gift, and a Grunkle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the kudos and comments! Should I keep saying thanks every chapter? I feel like it might become stale after a while, and I know that lots of writers just stop eventually, but I like to do it anyways. I'll try to vary it up and say thanks in more creative ways, okay?

When you’ve lived alongside someone your whole life, it becomes near impossible to keep anything from them.

Dipper had tried, of course, but Mabel always found him out. The stolen sweets under the bed, the bullies pushing him around at school while he tried to tough it out and be brave, all the times he’d cheated at checkers.

Dipper knew better by now than to keep secrets from his twin. Despite this, he put off coming clean about the deal until a few days later when Bill showed up with a truck and Dipper found himself waist-high in hot water.

He had tried his best to explain and apologize, but soon found that Mabel wouldn’t allow him a single word in edgewise.

In the end, it was Bill that calmed her down. Dipper liked to think it was because she was less apt to explode at a stranger, but he had to admit the two of them got on well.

Dipper was leery of how readily Mabel accepted Bill. He wasn’t comfortable letting someone who had held him hostage be so close to his sister. But then again, there wasn’t much he could do about it, and he thought it best not to bite the hand that fed him.

After Mabel stopped threatening to permanently sew Dipper into his clothes, Bill drove the truck around into the alley and they worked together to fill the backroom.

It was Mabel’s first time seeing the room, and when they pried open the door that led out into the side street, she dashed inside, her footsteps echoing on the stone.

“Amazing,” she gaped. “This was here the whole time and we never knew it?”

She twirled, sending dust particles spinning away, her skirt flaring and rippling in the slats of light from the boarded windows.

Dipper followed her in, carrying a crate of beer from the back of the truck.

The truck could have been mistaken for any number of others, white painted sides, no striking logo, like a milk truck. To any nosy passersby peeking into the alley, it would appear as if Pines’ Fine Antiques was simply receiving its normal deliveries. Dipper was ever thankful.

Mabel continued to flit around the room. “Think of all the parties we could have had!”

 “And think of all the friends I don’t have that we could have invited!” added Dipper.

Mabel was still sore over not having been involved in the striking of the deal, and so she frowned. “Oh, no one was asking you, sourpuss.”

Bill brought up the rear, walking at a brisk pace and carrying his crate past Dipper in an obvious show of superior strength.  He set his cargo down in the corner and looked around.

“I’ve seen better,” he remarked. “For parties, anyway. You should see some of the places uptown.”

Mabel was at his side in an instant. “You mean like clubs? Speakeasys?”

Just as Dipper had predicted, Mabel was completely enraptured by Bill’s gangster lifestyle, perfectly happy to ignore the more shady parts of his character in favour of her projections of glamour and adventure.

“Pssh,” Bill snorted. “Please. These places are more like ballrooms. Crystal chandeliers, ruby-red curtains, floors like mirrors. Everything happens there. Important meetings, secret weddings, dances, assassinations...”

“Sometimes all four at the same time?” suggested Mabel.

Bill held out a hand. “Now you’re thinking!” He gave Mabel a clumsy spin and she complimented him with a few quick dance steps.

Dipper cleared his throat. “Uh, stuff to move, remember? Moonshine to hide? Police to not piss off?”

Bill let go. “Gotta rain check this dance, Shooting Star. Your brother looks a little starved for attention.”

_Shooting Star?_

Dipper realized all too late the correlations Bill must have made between his first meeting with Mabel and the poem Dipper had recited for him in the park. Wonderful.

Bill brushed past him and out the door, throwing a raised eyebrow his way.

Dipper recognized that look. Mabel would flash one his way whenever she got compliments or praise and he didn’t. It was a look that meant, “Jealous?”

But what was there to be jealous about? Sure, there was that nagging at the back of his head that he should be the one closer to Bill, the one dealing with him, making sure he didn’t try anything funny, but that was being assertive, not envious.

Bill was the one to have ulterior motives, not him. Oh god, did Bill have ulterior motives?

These thoughts occupied him the rest of the afternoon, and the work passed without incident.

After that, Dipper had expected to see very little of Bill, but instead he made regular visits. He claimed to be checking up on his stock, making sure it was all there, but the visits were so long and the conversations so casual that it was made clear none of it was for business.

Neither Dipper nor Mabel really minded, though it took a while for Dipper to mellow to his presence. It was nice to have someone to talk to besides each other. Bill seemed to enjoy it, too. Dipper could imagine that it might be the only downtime he got in between murdering people or whatever it was he did in his professional life.

They often talked late into the night, and Mabel appropriated pieces of decrepit, unsalable furniture from around the shop to create a makeshift living room since Dipper made it clear that Bill was not to be welcomed upstairs.

After a week of subtle and then not so subtle harassment, Bill and Mabel managed to coerce Dipper into allowing them to break out the drinks.

As soon as the bottles hit the table, Mabel challenged them all to a drinking game, and Dipper was outvoted two to one.

The rules were simple: they went around the circle asking questions, and if someone didn’t want to answer the question they took a drink.

Dipper suspected that this game was less something Mabel had been waiting to suggest and more something she had made up on the spot to be rigged against him. He answered every question for fear of having to drink.

Bill championed. If there were two things he knew how to hold, it was his tongue and his liquor.

Mabel shared plenty, but Dipper noticed that she’d reach for the bottle even when the question asked was as simple as naming a favourite colour.

The game soon became about one thing: what would happen first? Dipper taking a drink or Bill answering a damn question.

Dipper decided to use this game to further his personal investigation into exactly who Bill was.

"What’s a Capo?” he asked, remembering what the two goons had called Bill when he had first stormed the shop.

Bill was leaning back in an overstuffed loveseat. “Short for _Caporegime_. It’s Italian for captain.”

“You’re a captain? Of what?”

“Of people,” Bill said. “Of those two idiots that were with me before.”

Mabel, who was slumped over the counter, clearly having been overeager with her drinking, lifted her head. “You’re from Italy?” she asked, apparently a few seconds behind in the conversation.

Bill chuckled. “Hey, I never said that, but everyone comes from somewhere. Doesn’t really matter once you get where you’re going.”

Mabel waggled her finger in a drunken attempt at scolding. “That’s not how it goes, my good sir. You either answer my question or you drink.”

It wasn’t his turn anymore, but Bill shrugged. Maybe the alcohol was finally getting to him.

“Fine. I’m from overseas. I have a motherland or whatever. Don’t you two Yanks go making fun of me for it.”

“Liar,” Mabel slurred between the strands of hair in her mouth. “You don’t even have an accent.”

“Thanks. I work very hard to conform to societal norms.”

“So I’ve noticed,” said Dipper. “Did you come here for work, then?”

“Why else?”

“You ever miss home?” Mabel mumbled. “Ever think about going back?”

“That implies I have something to go back for,” Bill said, effectively ending the turn.

This left the final objective to be Dipper finally taking a drink, but Bill remedied this the next time his turn swung ‘round.  

He snapped his fingers. “Alright, Pine Tree. You either kiss me or you take a drink.”

Later, Mabel laughed at her brother for how much of a lightweight he was. One drink and his face was bright red.

Dipper still wasn’t completely comfortable with Bill. Sure, he acted like a normal human being most of the time, but Dipper would never forget the gun held against his forehead, the threats, the cases of beer sitting in his backroom. It wasn’t the best foundation for a friendship.

Even so, and though he wouldn’t readily admit it, he looked forward to Bill dropping into the shop from time to time. He would reason that any respite from the intense boredom of shopkeeping would be equally welcomed, but his smiles betrayed him.

It was a Friday when Bill entered the shop carrying a tied white box.

Mabel was out for the day, and Dipper had flashbacks as Bill marched up to the counter and set the box down.

“Oh God,” Dipper said, pushing his chair back. “What is that? What’s in the box? Is it drugs? It’s drugs, isn’t it?”

“Oh, dry up,” Bill scoffed. “Do you really think I’d be stupid enough to bring drugs here in a flimsy cardboard box?”

“Honestly, with you, drugs would be the best case scenario. I’m half expecting there to be a severed head in there.”

“So sorry to disappoint.” Bill pulled the strings and the box unfolded to reveal a chocolate cake.

Dipper blanked. “What.”

“One of the perks of extorting a bakery,” Bill explained. “And none of my men deserve it, so here I am.”

It was a black forest cake, adorned with chocolate shavings and cherries, Dipper’s favourite. He wondered if Bill had asked Mabel beforehand.

“Thanks,” Dipper said. “It’s really...” He didn’t want to say sweet. “...nice.”

“You’re welcome.”

Silence. Smiles. Then Mabel burst through the door, the bell clanging so hard it threatened to fall off its hook.

“Dipper, oh my god!” she gasped, out of breath.

Dipper shot up from his chair. “What’s wrong?”

“Were the prophecies true?” asked Bill. “Is the Rapture today?” For as above everything as he usually acted, his voiced was tinged with genuine worry.

Mabel was bent over, panting. “We need to hide everything!”

“Calm down,” Dipper said. “You need to tell us what’s going on.”

“He’s a block away,” said Mabel. “I think he’s coming for a surprise visit. It’s Grunkle Stan.”

Everyone in the room bristled.

Then Bill asked, “Who?”

Dipper sprang into action, breaking up Mabel’s furniture hodgepodge that still sat in the middle of the shop, and pushing chairs back into place. “Mabel, make sure you didn’t leave any of your dumb bottles around.”

“Right!” Mabel set about scouring the counter and tables while Bill stood amidst the chaos, doing his best impression of a lost puppy.

“Would someone kindly explain to me what the hell is going on?”

“It’s our Great Uncle Stan,” said Dipper, grunting as he shoved the loveseat back into its original dustless square. “He’s coming to visit.”

“I got that much,” Bill said. “But why the sudden spring cleaning?”

“Our uncle is a psycho when it comes to anything shady or illegal,” Mabel explained. “He won’t even talk about expect to remind us to stay far away.”

“Yeah,” said Dipper. “Beer is like a curse word to him. We have no idea what happened to him to make him like that, but we’ll be in for it if he so much as catches a whiff of what we’ve been up to.”

“He’s such a hypocrite, though,” Mabel added. “The number of times we caught him coming home drunk.” She smacked a hand against her temple. “Shoot! I should have dug up some stories from his friends at the bar.”

“That would only make things worse,” Dipper chided. “Please don’t mention you’ve been to a speakeasy.”

“Please don’t mention you’ve been cavorting with gangsters,” Mabel said, imitating her brother’s tone.

She finished her once-over of the shop, hastily stowing stray bottles behind picture frames and inside vases. “Someone check the bookcase to make sure it’s locked.”

“I should leave” said Bill. “One less thing to be suspicious of, you know? Plus, I’d hate to trample all over what will no doubt be a heartfelt family reunion.”

Dipper nodded, realizing that there was no use hiding bottles and moving chairs if there was a goddamned Mafia member front and center. “Go.”

Mabel flew to the window. “Oh Jesus, I can see him already. Go out the back! Go out the back!”

Bill obliged, hurrying to the storeroom and hopping behind the bookcase, Dipper following to lock the door behind him. Just as he was sliding the bolt into place, he heard the bell jingle and Mabel exclaim, “Grunkle Stan!”

Dipper recognized his grunkle’s distinctive gruff voice. “Mabel, sweetheart! How are you doing?”

“Splendiferous, as always,” Mabel said, her usual perky air on full display. “And you didn’t tell us you were going to be visiting.”

“Neither did I,” said Stan. “Was a bit of a spur of the moment type deal. Turns out I can be sentimental when I try.” He patted the wall of the shop. “Where’s your brother?”

Dipper jumped from the storeroom back into the light. “Hey, Grunkle Stan. Nice to see you.”

Stan was dressed how he always was, like a best man that had been to too many weddings and had never bothered to change his suit. Glasses slouched on his nose. A red tie drooped over his chest. Despite his haggard appearance, the twinkle in his eye gave away his kind nature.

He hadn’t visited at all since his retirement, and even his phone calls had been scarce. He lived now in a house across town, but Dipper had never understood why he had retired to being with. He seemed more of the type to work himself to death first before old age got to him.

“Nice to see you too, kid.” Stan said, his expression puzzled. “What were you doing in the closet?”

“Um.” Dipper fumbled for an excuse.

Mabel, the queen of improv, saved him. “We’re cleaning it out because it’s atrocious. Really, could you have not bothered to at least give it a dust from time to time? It’s like the Sistine Chapel made out of cobwebs.”

“Eesh,” Stan grimaced. “I wouldn’t bother with it if I were you. I’ve swept so much stuff under those shelves over the years... You do not need to see what’s down there, trust me.”

Mabel giggled. “That’s why I’m having Dipper do it. He lost a bet.”

“Atta girl!” Stan grinned, then his gaze shifted. “Say, why’ve you got a cake there?”

“Huh?” said Mabel, the cake being news to her as well.

“I bought it,” Dipper cut in, a tad too loud. “It was the second part of the bet, and I’m glad you’re here so Mabel won’t have to eat it alone like a loser.”

“I won it fair and square,” Mabel pouted, quick on the uptake but still visibly confused about the cake. “What I do with it is my business. I guess you’re going to force me to share now, aren’t you?”

Stan chuckled. “Would you deny an old pensioner his free food?”

“Look at you,” Mabel said. “Not a year into retirement and already mooching off your niece and nephew.” She smiled. “Bring the cake upstairs and I’ll get plates.”

She swung around the banister and disappeared up into the apartment, Stan and Dipper following.

Halfway up, Dipper stopped. “Okay, Stan, you can give it up. Why are you really here?”

“What?” Stan said, trying a little too hard to sound scandalized. “You don’t believe that I came here just because I missed you?”

“Do you want me to flip a coin on that?”

Stan’s laugh devolved into a hacking cough partway through. “This is what I get for practically raising you two. Don’t worry; I’m not looking for any favours. Let’s wait until I can talk to your sister, too, alright?”

Around the cramped kitchen table, over slices of black forest cake, Grunkle Stan explained.

“I came here today to make sure you two stay safe.”

Mabel opened her mouth to protest, but Stan gave her a look. “I have a valid reason. There’ve been rumblings in the street, words down the grapevine, that things are gonna get rough. And not the good kind of rough, the dangerous kind.

“There’s been a lot less crime in the papers lately, but you can bet your bottom dollar that the gangs ain’t  going anywhere anytime soon. That can only mean one thing: that they’re getting ready for something big. If it was one gang, that’d be fine, but there’s a lot of ‘em in the mix, so I hear.”

Mabel twirled a cherry on the end of her fork. “Gee, you seem really knowledgeable about this, Grunkle Stan.”

“I have friends,” he said. “Friends talk.”

Mabel looked as if she had more to say, but instead showed a bite of cake into her mouth. She wasn’t really one to be talking anyway.

“I just want to make sure you two are off the streets and out of trouble,” Stan reassured. “I’m old. I’ve been around the block a couple times. I know what I’m talking about. If a turf war breaks out, well, innocent people tend to get involved and I don’t want either of you to get hurt.”

“Don’t worry about us,” Mabel said. “We’ll be careful, right, Dipper?”

Dipper hadn’t said anything the whole conversation. It was a bit too late for caution, wasn’t it?

He wished Bill was there to share the cake. Dipper would have had a few questions for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, one of you found my tumblr. (I say found as if I was trying to hide it.) 
> 
> It's drossna, by the way, same as my username on here minus the capitalization. You can come into my inbox to ask questions (like why the hell I thought cheesy poetry was a good idea) or to just scream or whatever. I'm not going to tell you what to do.


	5. A Sizable Catastrophe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's all fun and games until someone is lying bleeding on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alors, voici la debut de mes remerciements creatives! Merci beacoup pour tous les compliments et commentaires! J'apprecie tous que vous faitez pour me motivier! (Ma francais est, en realite, horrible, alors si quelqu'un est offende par mon grammaire ou manque d'accents, je m'excuse.)

Autumn hit Chicago in a slew of bitter wind and wayward leaves. Gray clouds blotted out the sun, teasing the people below with the promise of rain but never driving them inside.

Dipper struggled to adjust his scarf with one hand as he juggled a paper bag of groceries with the other.

Around him, pedestrians shouldered past and cars rattled on the street, everyone in a hurry to be somewhere else. Dipper was no different.

Someone bumped into him, catching him off balance, and he narrowly avoided spilling his groceries across the pavement.

His purchased goods weren’t anything special—milk, eggs, bread. With two weeks of Bill’s generous pay checks lining his pocket, he could have been buying better, but he didn’t feel comfortable flaunting his newfound wealth.

Now that their bills were no longer a problem, he and Mabel had been discussing what to spend the remainder on. Without hesitation, Mabel had requested a bicycle, though what good a bicycle would be in the middle of Chicago, Dipper had no idea. Of course, his suggestion of a toaster earned a similarly cold reception.

In truth, it would have been possible to buy both of these items, but since they were siblings one of them needed to win.

And so the money remained unspent, hidden in various places throughout their apartment, separated into chunks as advised by Bill.

A particularly wicked gust of wind left Dipper’s cheeks stinging, and he ducked into a side street to rest.

He was watching people file past, making up names for them as they went—you look like an Edna, you’re a Joe, that’s definitely a Katherine—when he felt something press into the small of his back.

“Empty your pockets.”

Dipper froze, but he would have had to have been an idiot not to recognize that voice by now. He whirled around. “What the hell, Bill?”

Bill cracked a cheesy grin as he held up the finger gun he had poked Dipper with. “Bang. Got you.”

Dipper still wasn’t sure how to feel about Bill. Bill certainly wasn’t making it easy, either. Sometimes he was calm and reasonable, other times passionately angry. There were the cryptic remarks, vague responses. And then there was the flirting.

Dipper could no longer pretend as if it wasn’t happening, but as with anything else having to do with Bill, Dipper had to question whether or not it was genuine. It was evident that Bill enjoyed getting under his skin, and the suggestive comments and drunken invitations to kiss him certainly did the trick.

Yes, it was better to assume that Bill was just messing with him. Safer even. Plus, if he really was being serious, they were both guys, and that would have been... unorthodox.

“Most people just say hello,” Dipper noted, eyeing the finger gun. “Mock stick-ups are a bit rude, don’t you think?”

“Horsefeathers,” Bill said. “You’re just sore because I got one up on you. You should be grateful that we’re not keeping score.”

“Thank god for that,” Dipper agreed. “Oh! And, I, uh—“ His words abandoned him suddenly. “Thanks again, for yesterday, for the cake.”

“It was no problem,” said Bill. “I’m a made man, after all. I’m in the business of making people happy.”

Dipper nodded, then he remembered what Grunkle Stan had told him the day before.

“Actually,” he said. “It’s good that you found me. I need to talk to you about something.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Really?” asked Dipper, caught off guard.

Bill leaned against the alley wall, lowering his voice as one did when secrets were being exchanged.  “I don’t think you know this, but your sister has been sneaking off some nights, trying to find a job at a speakeasy.”

Dipper nearly dropped his bag of groceries. “What? You liar!”

“No, no,” insisted Bill, utterly calm. “It’s true. Once or twice a week, whenever she can, she’ll wait for you to fall asleep and then leave. She’s been trying to find a place that’ll hire her, but it isn’t as if speakeasys put out ‘help wanted’ ads.”

“And how do you know any of this?” Dipper demanded.

“She told me. Apparently she’s doing this because you wouldn’t let her find a job under normal circumstances.”

Bill’s voice was scathing, but Dipper hardly noticed. He was struggling to wrap his head around what Bill was telling him. Bill could be lying, but no, this was just the sort of dangerous, reckless stunt that Mabel would pull. One does not tell Mabel Pines that she is not to do something.

 “A job is one thing,” he said. “But going around to speakeasys by herself? That’s just irresponsible and—Oh no, she hasn’t gotten hurt has she?”

Bill rolled his eyes. “I’m sure with the way you dote over her that you would’ve noticed any bullets wounds by now.”

“That’s not funny,” Dipper said. “I can’t believe she would do this. She could get in so much trouble—She could get killed—and she didn’t even tell me!”

“Ooh,” said Bill. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

Dipper knew what Bill was getting at. Mabel must have felt the same way when she had learned of his deal with Bill. It felt like betrayal, delivered like a punch to the gut.

“I see what you’re saying,” said Dipper. “But what I did was different. I agreed to your offer so that our shop wouldn’t go under. I was desperate.”

Bill scoffed. “You really are dense, aren’t you? She wouldn’t be taking such drastic action if she weren’t desperate, too.”

“What does she have to be desperate about?”

“It’s pretty obvious that she’s doing this to prove a point,” said Bill. “Maybe not even to you, but to herself. You think that you’re protecting her, but really you’re just smothering her. She’s trying to show that she can take care of herself.”

 “But running all willy-nilly through the streets at night?”

“People do crazy things when they’re driven far enough.”

“I’m only trying to take care of her,” Dipper reasoned. “I’m supposed to be the man of the house. I have responsibilities.”

“You?” Bill asked. “The man in charge? That’s rich. Trust me, women can hold their own just as much as men if you give them the chance. I’ve gotten slapped enough times to know that much.”

“And now she’s going out at night, risking her neck, because she thinks I need to see that she can take care of herself.” Dipper leaned his forehead against the brick. “God damn it. I screwed up, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, this is pretty much all your fault,” said Bill. “She wouldn’t be doing this if you had just let her find a job. Heck, I have connections. I could have helped.”

Dipper lifted his head from the wall. “That’s it.”

“What’s it?”

“You could find her a job. If you could find her a relatively safe place to work at, then she wouldn’t have to risk her neck looking for one herself.”

“Doesn’t that defeat the point? If we do it for her?”

Dipper returned his head to pressing into the bricks. “I don’t know. I just want her to be safe.”

“Well, gee,” said Bill. “If Shooting Star really means that much to you, the I’ll ask around, put in some good words, improve her chances. I’ll find a nice place.” Bill thought for a second. “Eh, a nicer place. Relatively. ”

Dipper couldn’t help it as the corners of his mouth twitched upwards in a hopeless grin. “You’d do that?”

“Ah ah ah,” Bill stopped him. “Not for free, I won’t.”

Dipper’s expression soured. “Seriously?”

Bill shrugged. “That’s just how business works, Pines—you get out what you put in—and I happen to need a favour.”

“You asshole,” Dipper muttered. “What is it this time? Not more illegal smuggling I hope, because the backroom is full. When are you going to collect that stuff anyways?”

“Oh, soon enough,” Bill dismissed. “And if you help me, then even sooner.” He glanced out into the street. Despite the punishing winds, the human traffic still trundled past. He gave a hefty sigh. “I’ll talk quickly. See, I’m in a bit of a bind. One of my men skipped town, we’re already short on people, and I have a very important meeting tonight. I need you to act as my bodyguard.”

Dipper blanked. “What. You’re not making any sense. If anything, you should be my bodyguard.”

Bill shook his head. “You wouldn’t actually have to do anything, just show up and look like you belong. I can’t come alone.” He rolled his eyes. “Well, I mean, they always tell you to come alone, but nobody really does that, but it’s rude to outright bring someone and—“ Bill stopped himself. “Long story short: we’re all a bunch of over-considerate, two-faced sons of bitches, and I need you to stand against a wall for thirty odd minutes while I get things done. Capiche?”

“That seems pretty simple,” Dipper said. “What’s the catch?”

“The catch is you’re going to have to dress decently for once.” Bill held out his hand. “Deal?”

Dipper shook. “Deal.” Then he frowned. “Hey, what’s wrong with the way I dress?”

+

Bill must have had a thing for weird meeting places, because it was seven o clock when they met beneath the awning of a movie theatre in uptown.

The grand sign above the theatre was the focal point of the entire street, advertising shows in bold black font. People queued at the booth, buying tickets and chatted merrily. Night was falling earlier and earlier with every passing day, but the flashing lights of the theatre were like a beacon.

Dipper arrived to find Bill already waiting for him, standing in between posters for _The Sheik_ and _The Phantom Carriage._ He held a bundle of folded fabric under his arm.

A woman knocked into Dipper’s shoulder as he made his way over. “Any reason for meeting at the movies?” he asked.

“I figured it’d be hard to miss,” said Bill. “What with the giant blinking sign. Can’t have my associate getting lost, after all.”

“What am I, a moth?”

Bill smirked. “Have you got something against moths? Moths can be cute.” He held out the bundle of clothes. “Anyways, you’re borrowing these for the evening. They’re my second best, so don’t rough them up, okay?”

Dipper looked over the jacket and pants. “I’m not supposed to change here, am I?”

“Oh, for Christ sake.”

They found a side street, and Bill stood guard while Dipper began the awkward process of hopping about on one leg while trying to pull a pair of pants over the other.

“So,” said Dipper, doing his best not to topple over like a paralyzed flamingo. “About what I wanted to talk to you about earlier.”

Bill was sat on a storage crate, facing towards the street at Dipper’s request. “If this is about the broken chair,” he said. “Then no, it wasn’t me. It was Mabel.”

 “That’s not—Wait, that was you?”

“I just said it wasn’t me!”

“I’m pretty sure that was a confession.”

“I plead not guilty!” Bill held a hand to the sky like he was taking an oath.

Dipper snorted. “I fold, sheesh. No need to call a lawyer. And I didn’t want to ask you about the chair. I wanted to know if you’d heard anything about a war.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, Pines,” said Bill. “There’ve been a lot of wars.” He started listing them off on his fingers. “The Punic Wars, The Hundred Years’ War, the Civil War, the Great War, the second—“

Dipper frowned. “The second?  Second what?”

“Oh, the second Great War. After the huge shindig it was last time, you can bet that mankind is itching to go at it again. You’d have to be hopelessly optimistic to think that it’ll never happen.”

Dipper finished buckling his belt and looked up. “Literally everybody thinks that. The world isn’t stupid enough to let a second Great War happen, and I wasn’t talking about that kind of war to begin with. I was talking more about a gang war.”

“A gang war?” Bill laughed. “There you are being paranoid again. You’d be surprised how few and far between outright war is when it comes to gangs. We know that we’d only tear ourselves apart.”

“You have more faith in the Chicago Mafia getting along than you do in the world preventing another Seminal Catastrophe?”

“It’s a shame really,” said Bill. “Things have been getting pretty dull lately.”

Dipper’s head had been stuck in his shirt, but when he popped up he gave Bill a long stare.

“I’m kidding,” Bill clarified. “I’m a pessimist, not a violent psychopath. But, no. I haven’t heard anything about a war. If one is on the rise, my people must not be involved or I’d have noticed. What made you think there was a war?”

“My Great Uncle Stan,” Dipper admitted. “When he came to visit yesterday, he told Mabel and I that he thought the gangs were up to something.”

Bill thought for a second. “Hmm, interesting. Did he tell you about how he came to that conclusion?”

“No, but both me and Mabel are pretty sure he got it from his drinking buddies.”

“Drinking buddies.” Bill mumbled something to himself, chuckling. “Isn’t it strange how news of a gang war would reach the ears of some old sod in a bar before it got to me?”

Dipper finished buttoning his vest and was adjusting the jacket. It fit almost perfectly. “That is weird,” he said. “It was probably just a drunk story, then.”

“Probably,” agreed Bill. “Though, if there turns out to be some truth to the rumour, then I’ll have you to thank for giving me the heads up.” He turned around. “Are you about done?”

“Almost,” said Dipper, fidgeting with something in his hand. “Only, I don’t— I have no idea how to—“ He gave up and held out the tie in defeat.

Bill took it, smirking and stepping forward. “Oh my god, you’re hopeless.”

As Bill worked on the knot, Dipper noted that if he lowered his head just a tiny bit, their noses could have touched—they were near the same height after all. Dipper realized with a start that he might actually be taller.

“Hold still,” Bill muttered, pulling Dipper even closer.

Bill seemed to make it a point to ignore personal space, or at least that seemed to be the case to Dipper. It was just as Bill was drawing away that Dipper decided he didn’t really mind.

“Voila,” said Bill. “Now you’re all...” There was a pause as he appraised his work, though Dipper noted that the appraisal lasted a few moments longer than necessary. “Respectable,” Bill finished. “Like you might even find a dame to drape over your arm by night’s end, only that’s not really your style, is it?”

“Gee, thanks.”

+

On the way to the restaurant where the meeting would take place, Bill explained Dipper’s role.

“See, you’re not actually supposed to do anything. I just need you to be there to show that I have people under me that I can afford to bring places. It’s mostly about status.”

“You need to seem like you’re important,” Dipper said.

Bill nodded. “Essentially. Us made men are incredibly narcissistic. We base everything off of material wealth or military-like influence. It doesn’t matter how skilled you are, or what you bring to the table as an individual, or if you can disarm three people in the time it takes someone else to disarm one. If you don’t have seniority—“ Bill’s voice was rising towards a crescendo. “But I digress. Just walk like you know what you’re doing.”

Dipper laughed, but it was half-hearted as worry started to set in. “You do realize who you’re talking to?”

“You’ll do fine,” assured Bill. “Faking confidence isn’t as hard as you might think. Just stick close to me, make sure that people see that we’re together, and if things get hairy, you have my permission to book it.”

“What do you mean ‘if things get hairy’?” Dipper baulked. “If things get hairy how?”

“If I’m dead on the floor and the light leaves my eyes, then you are relieved of all obligations.”

Dipper responded with a look of abject horror.

Bill didn’t seem to notice. “Ah, here we are.”

The restaurant was a branch off of a hotel, and they had to walk through the lobby to reach it.

Dipper had vivid memories of Mabel pulling him off the street to wander through lobbies like this one. Wealthy madams and monsieurs wandered the length of a velvet carpet that stretched from the door to the reception. Bellboys stood at the ready, their uniforms sharp and their expressions dull. Ivory columns and painted ceilings likened it to a roman chapel.

Bill marched briskly past all the opulence without once batting an eye, and Dipper tried to do the same, though he couldn’t stop himself from staring at the massive crystal chandelier.

Right before they approached the maitre d’, Bill whispered in Dipper’s ear, “Follow me until I sit down, then find a table nearby.”

Apparently Bill knew before hand exactly where the meeting was taking place, because he didn’t hesitate in mounting the stairs to the second floor.

“What exactly is this meeting about, anyways?” asked Dipper.

“A bunch of leftover formalities for that business deal I told you about before,” said Bill. “I’m not all for it, but the Northwest Company is all about tradition.” His gaze focused. “Ah, there’s my man.”

Bill went to sit and Dipper found a table in by the window from which to watch. The restaurant was fairly full, so the conversation was difficult to listen to.

Dipper zoned out. A waitress came over and offered him a glass of water, and he passed the time tracing patterns with water droplets and reciting poetry under his breath.

He was brought back to reality when he heard Bill shouting.

“He had an agreement!” Bill was stood up now, having pushed his chair backwards. “Why did you even ask me here if it was only to—“

The man sat opposite him—a squat fellow with salt and pepper hair—said something to quiet him, something Dipper heard as “If you’d... we can talk further.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Bill said. “I take one step out of here and I know exactly what you’ll try to do to me.”

By now, the surrounding tables had taken notice of the disturbance, ladies casting snide glances, men turning around in their chairs.

Dipper wondered if he should be doing something, but what could he do? Bill could handle this.

The man pushed away from the table, his words fully audible now. “If only you could be a little more cooperative. I expected more of the Three Points’ very own Golden Boy.”

From across the room, Dipper saw a stocky man get up from his table. He had been sitting alone, just like Dipper, and Dipper realized that he must have been fulfilling the same role as well: he was the squat man’s bodyguard.

The bodyguard approached the table, towering in an almost comedic fashion over Bill. He reached inside his jacket pocket, and Dipper didn’t realize what was happening until a woman at one of the tables screamed.

What followed happened in what seemed like less than a second, and Dipper saw it in rough jump-cuts, like his vision had jammed on a projector wheel.

The man pulled a gun and aimed it at Bill. Before he could even get his hand level, Bill ploughed into his chest, sending him sprawling backwards. On his way down, the bodyguard twisted and slammed the butt of the gun into the back of Bill’s head, and then it went off, shooting into the air.

Both Bill and the man hit the floor in an explosion of tossed cutlery and shattered wine glasses. People, spurred on by the gunshot, pilled towards the staircase, trying to get away. The entire restaurant was in uproar.

Dipper’s world sat frozen for a moment before suddenly snapping alive when he saw that the bodyguard was picking himself while Bill was still on the floor.

He did the only thing he could think of. He took five long steps, grabbed a plate off a table, and smashed it across the bodyguard’s head. Unfortunately, it didn’t knock him out, but it did distract him long enough for Dipper to find Bill.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Dipper muttered. “Are you okay?”

Bill’s eyes took their time opening. “Wha—What are you doing here?”

“I think you might have a concussion,” Dipper said, ever aware of the bodyguard still groggy but conscious not five feet away from them. “You asked me to come with you, remember? We need to—“

“No,” Bill mumbled. “Why are you still here? Why didn’t you run?”

“Because I don’t want you to die?”

Bill’s eyes grew wide, and his hand flew to his side. “Behind you! Get down!”

Dipper didn’t question it. He flattened himself against Bill and the gunshot that went off next to his ear rattled his brain. He wasn’t sure if the noise had deafened him, but all was quiet, and Dipper didn’t dare to move in the creeping seconds of silence that followed.

He was aware of everything. His ringing eardrums. His eyes squeezed shut. Bill’s chest shuddering with each uneven breath.

Finally, Bill spoke, “Are you hurt?”

“Not me,” Dipper managed. “But you are.”

“Applesauce,” Bill protested, but there was no pep in his words. His tone was flat. “I’m fine. Pick yourself up, but I would suggest not looking at the floor.”

Dipper stood on shaky legs, but the body bleeding out on the carpet was hard to miss. His stomach turned over.

“Oh, my god. He’s dead.”

“You should have just left,” said Bill, gripping onto a chair to haul himself upright.

“He would have killed you,” Dipper pointed out, trying and failing to not stare at the corpse.

Bill had nothing to say to this. “We should go.”

They made their way down the stairs, Bill stumbling and Dipper having to catch him. They left via a back door just as sirens started wailing in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit of a mixed bag for me. I love the second and third scenes to bits, but I rewrote rewrote rewrote the first one and-!!! 
> 
> C'est la vie? (well, not for that poor sap anymore it isn't. hahaha i'll let myself out)


	6. Shell-shocked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Australia? That's just what the government wants you to think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gszmph ztzrm uli zoo gsv pfwlh zmw xlnnvmgh! Yb gsv dzb, R wrwm'g fhv z gizmhozgli uli gsrh. R'ev tlg rg nvnliavw. Mlg gl yizt, yfg gszg'h kivggb yzwzhh. Zohl, wl blf orpv kzrm? R slkv blf orpv kzrm. Vmqlb!

Dipper had fallen asleep in Bill’s clothes.

He didn’t remember returning home, but he had gotten there one way or another. How he had made it all the way from uptown to Racine Street, into the shop, up the stairs, and into his bed without any memory was beyond him.

And while he couldn’t remember how he had escaped the restaurant, he remembered the body like it was branded into his brain. The blood, the silence, the neck just slightly out of place.

To say that he slept was a bit of an exaggeration. Rather, he slipped fretfully from nightmare to waking panic with frightening fluidity.

He awoke for a final time when he felt a hand pressing onto his forehead. Fingers traced down his cheek and he jolted awake.

It was barely five in the morning, and the room was pitch black. A figure stood above him, and in Dipper’s groggy state it morphed into a terrifying creature. He screamed.

Bill clamped a hand over his mouth. “God Almighty, Pines. Pipe down.”

Dipper struggled under Bill’s grip, and eventually Bill let go.

Dipper had his pick of responses to choose from. He could have been angry, indignant, scared even, but the nightmares had left only one thing on his mind.

“You killed that man.”

Bill’s face was obscured by the dark. “I know.”

“You shot him to death.”

“I know.”

“He’s dead.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Either Dipper was still dreaming, or that was the first time he had ever heard Bill apologize for something.

 “Why the hell are you in my room?”

“We need to leave town for a bit, lay low. Things like that tend to happen when you murder a man in public. I can’t risk leaving you behind, so I came to get you.”

“You’re kidnapping me?”

“I will if you make me.”

“I won’t. Should I wake up Mabel?”

“Write her a note. She’s smart. Leave her a warning and she’ll be fine.”

“Where are we going?”

“I have a place. Don’t bother to doll yourself up and meet me on the street.”

+++

Dipper got his first good look at Bill once they were outside under the streetlights, and it was a bit of a shock. The unflappable gangster was positively haggard. His jacket hung loose, unbuttoned, and his smile was weary. His hair stuck out from under his hat, and if Dipper had been better rested he might have felt a sense of triumph.

Neither of them said a thing, though if they had there was no one around to hear them. The road was dead quiet. Morning fog hung about the block, thought that could have just been Dipper’s murky vision.

Bill leaned against a black coupe parked dangerously close—and at a jaunty angle—to the shop’s front door.

Dipper didn’t have much experience riding in cars. The best he got were the occasions when Grunkle Stan would take the twins a city over for the day. With his wide circle of friends, Stan always seemed to find a car whenever he needed one, and Dipper had to assume that Bill’s situation was much the same.

Against all reason, Dipper’s stomach fluttered with excitement. Logically, he should have been scared out of his wits—having just last night been an accomplice to a shooting and now being on the lam—and to some degree he was, but the experience was also a thrill. It felt deliciously wrong.

It was this, and something more, that made him push the image of the bleeding man out of his mind and get in the car.

The image, unfortunately, did its best to push back.

They left the city in silence, Bill behind the wheel and Dipper slumped in the passenger seat.

Dipper knew that he could be going anywhere, but he didn’t really care. Bill didn’t seem in any state for mischief, which was saying something, and Dipper was content to stare out the window as city blocks, then neighbourhoods, then countryside passed by. If he was driving to his execution, then so be it.

It wasn’t until the sun finally peeked over the horizon that Bill cleared his throat. “Are you holding up alright?”

Dipper kept his gaze locked on the scenery as it whipped past. “I’m not the one that got knocked out cold.”

Bill’s laugh was low. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t go spreading that story around, thanks. It wouldn’t be good for my image.”

“How is it that a man with a perfect record a mile long gets dropped like a ragdoll anyways?”

“I was distracted,” Bill murmured. His fingers tapped at the steering wheel. “I normally only have me to worry about, but this time I had to account for multiple parties.”

Dipper frowned. “Do you not normally work with other people?”

“Not with anyone I care about.”

Dipper let out a very small, “Oh.” And then, “I’m sorry.”

“As you should be,” Bill said flatly. “You’re a bad influence on me, Pines.”

This got Dipper’s attention off the road, and he rubbed his eyes. “I’m the bad influence here? Me? I’m not the one who...” His voice trailed off. “Who...” It was just the two of them in the car, but suddenly the man with the hole in his head was back.

Bill grimaced, taking a deep breath. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, he felt around by his feet and came up with a thermos. He handed it to Dipper. “Unscrew this for me.”

Dipper obliged, taking a whiff that made the hairs on his neck stand straight up. “What the heck’s in here? Coffee or moonshine or what?”

“A bit of both,” Bill said. “That and about a cup and a half of sugar. Mabel invented it last week. It’s supposed to hit this middle ground between waking you up and making you pass out so—”

Dipper took a monster of a swig.

Bill gaped. “Pines!”

Dipper sputtered, the vile concoction dribbling down his chin. It burned in his throat, but he swallowed and felt the buzz rising to his brain. This was followed by a dull ache, but Dipper welcomed it. The more cotton stuffed into his head, the less room there was for other more intrusive things.

“I was falling asleep,” he told Bill.

Bill took the thermos from him. “If you say so.” He took a less enthusiastic drink, watching Dipper the entire time.

“Why did that guy in the restaurant have to go after you?” Dipper asked. “What did he want?”

Bill sighed. “I’m pretty sure he just wanted me dead. I had wondered why that additional meeting was necessary.”

“Why would—“ Dipper thought for a moment. “What was the company again?”

“The Northwest Company,” Bill said. “They’re a Canadian operation. They sell alcohol across the border since it’s more profitable.”

“Weren’t they a part of the fur trade industry once upon a time?”

Bill rolled his eyes. “You think I care about Canada? I don’t. I like their beer, that’s it.”

Dipper blinked, coming truly awake for the first time that day, Mabel’s mad potion working its magic.

“Why would a bunch of Canadians want you dead?” he wondered aloud. “How in the world did you manage to piss of the Canadians? I mean, I don’t doubt you could if you wanted to—you being you after all—but the Canadians?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment .” Bill smiled, their normal parley having been restored. “And that’s the part I’m hung up on, too. For once, I didn’t do anything. They just—“ Bill mimed the man pouncing on him, letting go of the wheel for a brief second, the car wobbling.

Dipper murmured his agreement. “Why would they do that to someone who they already have a business deal with? They’re gonna have to find someone else to work with now, right?”

Bill snapped his fingers. “They have someone else to work with,” he gasped. “Those traitors!”

“Someone else to work with?” asked Dipper, putting the pieces together. “Like another gang? Then they must have had Northwest representative lure you there so they could bump you off, right?”

“Ooh,” Bill said. “You’re probably right. They must be wanting to start something, this rival gang. You don’t just go around assassinating people for no reason after all.”

“Start something? Like a turf war perhaps?”

“If that’s the case,” said Bill. “Then quite frankly I’m flattered that they’d choose me as a catalyst.”

“Too bad for them,” Dipper noted. “This time, the Archduke lives.”

“The Arch—?” Bill cut himself off with a laugh. “Oh, my god! Our own little World War right here in Chicago! I told you there was going to be a second one.”

“Not yet there isn’t,” Dipper said.

Bill nodded solemnly. “And I suppose we should keep it that way.” He put a hand on Dipper’s shoulder, his gaze straying momentarily from the road. “Good detective work there, partner.”

Together, they watched the sun rise over the highway, the clouds glowing like they were burning from the inside. Golden grass carpeted either side of the road, fields rolling forever on either side with only a farmhouse or two to break up the monotony.

Dipper might have been happy to stay like that forever, watching the sun and—sometimes, for a quick few seconds, Bill—but his paranoia was needling at him like an old friend.

“Where are we going?” he asked. “You said you had a place?”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Bill warned. “It’s not exactly the Ritz.”

“Is it one of your gang’s places? Like a safe house?”

“No, this place is just mine. It’s where I go when I need to get away from things. Responsibilities, possible turf wars, the crushing existential nightmare that is this life, the like.”

“So, you’re saying I should expect some villain’s lair? Lots of brimstone and fire?”

Bill smirked. “Maybe.”

“Well, what else would you have me assume?” Dipper huffed. “You’re chock full of dangerous surprises. You’re like, like the Australia of people.”

Bill gave him a look. “Wait, you believe in Australia?”

“’Believe in’?”

Bill spent the remainder of the trip explaining how Australia being a prison colony was actually an elaborate ruse fabricated by the British government and how the horror stories that surrounded the place were to discourage anyone who got too curious.

His explanation as to where those who were banished actually ended up was cut short when he pulled off the main road and onto a winding dirt path.

The path led up to an old farm house that sagged in the middle and split on either side, but it was the fields beyond that took his breath away.

Wild daisies, poppies, and Queen Anne’s lace grew up between clumps of uneven dirt, the ruts from a ploughing left half-finished barely visible, worn down by rain. Corse grass had replace crops. Blackberry bramble had swallowed ditches.

A ways off sat a barn, its walls in the process of moulding from red to muddy brown.

The decrepit buildings were depressing, but when Dipper pulled himself from the car, the air tasted sweet, one part rotting mulch and two parts wildflowers.

“This is your special place?” he asked. “An abandoned farm house?”

Bill stretched, his joints cracking. “Hell no. The house is a write off. I keep most of my stuff in the barn.”

Dipper spun in a circle, taking in the fields that stretched uninterrupted as far as he could see. They must have been the only people for miles.

“But why the barn at all? Why this place? How did you even find it?”

“I found it when I crashed my car into a tree and stranded myself for three days.”

“Of course you did.”

“It took so long for someone to finally drive past on the road that I figured it would make a pretty good hiding spot.” Bill took a deep breath, soaking in the atmosphere. “It’s quiet. I like it. It gives you space to think.”

Dipper glanced towards the leaning farm house. “I always pegged you as more of a city dweller kind of person.”

Bill shrugged, rolling his shoulders. “It’s where the money is.”

“How long are we going to stay here for? How long does it take for a shooting to blow over?”

“Faster than you think when my people are involved. We don’t have to stay more than one night if you don’t want to. I just wanted to be safe.”

Dipper squinted at the sun. It was two more hours until high noon. “And what are we going to do all day? Chew grass?”

A wicked smile split Bill’s face. “I’m so glad you asked.” He vaulted over the hood of the coupe—an impressive feat as it wasn’t exactly low to the ground—and ran around to the back door.

Dipper followed out of morbid curiosity.

Bill flung open the door, revealing several weapons cases along with dual pistols just lying loose.

“I,” he said, pausing for dramatic effect. “Am going to teach you how to shoot.”

Dipper gulped. The Australia of people indeed.

+++

Dipper gripped the handle of the gun, his hands shaking.

It wasn’t that big a deal, he told himself. Plenty of people, not just criminals either, used guns. It wasn’t the gun that was dangerous, he reasoned, it was the person holding it. There was nothing to be scared of. So why did he feel so nauseous?

They had already hauled a stack of hay bales out of the barn and set them out in the field, but Bill was rummaging around in the barn for targets, so Dipper was left alone outside to pull himself together.

It wasn’t as if he was shooting at a person. And even so, Bill had shot twenty-eight people—twenty-nine people now, Dipper corrected himself—and he kept together just fine. He could do the same. If he needed to. He swore right then that he would never need to.

Bill returned from the barn, his arms overflowing with empty bottles. Dipper was not at all surprised.

“Ta da!” Bill exclaimed. “Dead soldiers!” He stacked them in a line on the hay bales.

“Please don’t call them that.”

Bill saw how Dipper was shaking like a leaf and he softened. “Are you okay? You look like you’re about to be sick.”

Dipper wiped his sweaty palms on his pants leg. “I’m fine.” He didn’t need Bill’s pity.

“Right-o,” Bill said. It was clear that he didn’t believe him for a second. He slid out of his suit jacket, flinging it into the flowers. Underneath, the two holster straps that ran like those of a backpack over his shoulders were painfully obvious. It was probably why he was so done up all the time. His gun was holstered under his left arm. He unsheathed it, twirling it for good measure.

“This,” he announced. “Is the greatest invention of the twentieth century. Once upon a time, you had to be excessively fit to win a fight. You needed to have the arm to lift a club or swing a sword. Now all you need is a quick wit and a good eye. Now the smart win the battles.”

“And you say I’m the poet,” Dipper muttered.

“What can I say?” said Bill. He whipped around, and before Dipper could blink one of the bottles shattered into a million pieces. “I’m a passionate man.”

Dipper’s heart skipped not one but several beats.

“Now you try,” said Bill, grinning. “Only you’re not going to be as flashy.” He took Dipper’s hand in his, raising it up so that it pointed at the line of bottles. “Here.”

Bill ghosted over Dipper, showing him how to stand, rearranging his grip, prying his nervous fingers apart and setting them properly.

Dipper tried to relax, but it was impossible. He had a gun in his hands. And Bill was right there. Every breath clotted in his chest.

“And you don’t pull the trigger,” Bill said. “You squeeze it. You follow through by pointing it up, and be ready for a little kickback. You got all that?”

“Got it.”

Bill took a step back. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Dipper stood, unmoving, stiff as a board, for seven long agonizing seconds. He stared at his targets so that they began to blur, the colours of the bottles and the hay and the bright flowers running together.

It was like standing at the edge of a cliff over a lake, waiting to pluck up the courage to jump, anticipating the cold smack of the water. It had that same lightheaded, empty stomach feel.

He took a deep breath, held it, then let it out.

“I can’t—“

“You can do it.”

No, you don’t understand, Dipper wanted to say. It’s not about pulling the trigger; it’s about what happens after. It’s about the person on the other end.

Suddenly, Bill was next to him again. “Lean into me,” he instructed. “I’ll steady you.”

Dipper did, but it made very little difference, at least physically. Little by little, his vision focused, his breathing evened out.

Dipper had learned over the past few weeks that the world was not as small as he would have liked it to be. The world was huge, full of crime and consequence, and in a world like this one, one needed to be decisive. One needed to be able to act, to not be hung up on stupid nightmares.

Bill was true to his word. He curved around him, cupping Dipper’s hands in his own. “Relax,” he said. “No one hits their mark the first time.”

Dipper could see the bottle now, the third from the left, tilted at an angle, green glass and a white label.

He squeezed.

The shot was huge. It was loud. It was right next to his head. The bullet missed, but that hardly mattered.

His ears were ringing again, and he was on the floor. The man was next to him, his face blank, his life seeping out in a puddle, no longer a man but a heap. His milky eyes were melting.

There wasn’t a scream, but the gun fell from Dipper’s hands, and he fell with it, crumpling to the ground.

“Pines? Pines!”

Dipper found himself on his hands and knees, staring at the wild daisies crushed under his fists. Tears crept across his vision.

No no no. Why was this happening? Why wouldn’t the man leave him alone? Why—

And Bill’s arms were around him, holding him up, clutching to his chest. “You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “We can talk about this later.”

No response.

“I’m not going to let go until you stop shaking.”                                    

Dipper gave the most undignified of sobs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've heard that some people do these things called "double updates". Like, they update twice in one day? You know, that sounds pretty neat... Too bad I have a life to live! See you fellas next week where all will be explained (only probably not).


	7. Balled Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want you to hit me as hard as you can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks this week comes in the form of a fun fact!   
> During WW1, farms in the US had to produce much more food than normal to support the war effort. They were able to turn huge profits this way, and they bought more land and expensive equipment. However, when the war ended, the demand declined and some farmers found themselves unable to support their expanded farms. This left many farms abandoned as their owners went bankrupt.   
> And this is the reason that Bill had to wait three days after he crashed his car into a tree, but really that's his own fault.

Most fairytales would have you believe that it was ghosts that haunted people, that the things that lurked at the corners of you vision or woke you in the night were spirits or demons or some other supernatural gobbledy gook. Dipper was eleven years old when he learned that this was not the case.

When he and Mabel were growing up in a small town in Michigan, Dipper had had plenty of friends. Of course, when you lived in a small town in Michigan, just about anyone who lived within a mile radius of your house was automatically drafted as your friend, no matter how socially inept you were.

The entirety of their eleventh summer was filled by a cardboard-and-tinfoil re-enactment of King Arthur’s Knights of the Round Table—Mabel had refused to play Guinevere and had instead been cast as the enchantress Morgan le Fay, Dipper marching alongside as Unnamed Knight #2.

They had been engaged in a chase scene against an enemy kingdom when their party had stumbled across the dog.

It was lying in a clearing, its limbs unmoving, its neck bent to the side like an actor conveying a dead faint. It was a very convincing performance.

Many of the other boys vouched to poke at it with sticks, but Dipper, in an attempt to bolster his reputation, approached on foot.

Upon closer inspection, he pronounced it dead. It didn’t smell. It wasn’t bleeding. It was just dead.

After a while, the other boys’ curiosity waned and they wandered off. Dipper stayed, however, and Mabel stayed with him.

The dog wore a collar, so it had obviously been someone’s pet, and Mabel suggested that they should have a funeral for it.

They picked great handfuls of buttercups and wild roses, but when Dipper approached the dog a second time, it lifted its head, just barely opening its mouth so that he could just see the blood leaking out of its maw.

They both shrieked and fled, flinging the flowers away as they went, running sobbing all the way home to be comforted by concerned parents.

It was only later that Dipper considered the possibility that the dog had been asking for help. If so, could he have been able to help it? Or had it been beyond helping? It was a classic case of what if what if what if.

 He never went back to check, and with everyday that passed the dog’s death had become more certain, and the more Dipper’s regret had grown.

Lying on a heap of hay in Bill’s reclaimed barn, this was the story that came back to him. Of all things.

He hadn’t moved for hours, and he was pretty sure he had fallen asleep at one point. The sun was setting and the shadows were creeping out of their dusty corners to wash over everything.

Bill had left him alone after he had collapsed, not a word having been exchanged since.

Dipper had no idea where he had disappeared to, but he wished that he would come back so they could talk or argue or shout or anything to fend off the thoughts that were running wild behind his closed eyes.

The barn’s roof had rotted clean through, and as Dipper lay on his back, he was treated to the first few stars blinking to life above. Staring at the tiny lights framed by the gaping hole in the wood, Dipper’s inner poet took over and though of how much of a constant the night sky was. One day, the barn would crumble to the ground, but the stars would endure.

If only he were more like the constellation from which he took his name.

Distracted, his lips seemed to move on their own.

_Strings strung tight sound the best_

_The sweetest songs are those of stress_

_The weight is more than some can bear_

_Draw a note and I will tear_

_It’s a shame I can’t sing your tune_

_I wish I could be more like—_

Bill hadn’t made a sound when he approached, and Dipper only knew that he was there when he settled next to him on the hay, a respectable two feet away.

Dipper cringed, realizing that he had been reciting aloud.

A tin can rolled across the straw, coming to rest next to his shoulder.

Bill spoke, “There’s nothing fresh I’m afraid. Just some beans, soups, copious amounts of alcohol...”

Several more cans, along with a slew of clear wine bottles, embedded themselves in the hay.

“I wouldn’t trust the dates on some of them. I’ve got a can opener here if...” Bill’s words trailed off, and soon Dipper heard the sound of a can being worked open.

“You’re mad at me, right?” Bill asked after a while. “Because it’s obvious that you’re scared stiff and all—you’re not talking or moving and that’s freaking me out—but you’re mad too, aren’t you?”

Dipper wondered why it mattered. What did Bill care if he was angry, if he hated him? Surely he was used to people disliking him. He wasn’t on the side of the law that lent itself to making friends, that’s for sure.

It would have been easy to blame Bill for everything that had happened, like how you blame such monoliths as the government or world leaders, but Bill wasn’t like that.

He hadn’t provoked the bodyguard from the restaurant, and he had only fired out of self-defence. The one thing Dipper could truly fault him for was offering him the job, but even then he hadn’t been obligated to accept it.

Dipper sighed. “I’m not mad at you.”

“Good,” said Bill. “That’s good. It’s just the incident at the restaurant that’s eating you?”

“I’m fine,” Dipper promised.

Bill sat straight up, setting his can of beans, which he had been eating with his fingers, to the side. “Fine?” he demanded. “Fine you say? Jesus Christ, Pines, you’re not fine. You’re going into conniptions and shaking and collapsing...”

“I swear, I’m good.”

“...going completely pale, and that’s not normal at all...”

 “Shut up!” Dipper sat up to face him. “I get it. This isn’t normal. This is pathetic and stupid. I’m pathetic and stupid!”

Bill was taken aback by the sudden aggression. “What—“

“I shy away from fights, I squirm when there’s blood, I can’t stop thinking about—“ Dipper caught his breath. “I helped kill that man. You may have pulled the trigger, but there’s blood on my hands, too, and I can’t handle it.”

Dipper wasn’t sure what he had expected, but Bill barked out a laugh. “What the hell is wrong with you? You say that as if it’s a bad thing, as if a cold-hearted, emotionless killer is the best thing to be.”

“Well, it’s certainly better than being a useless, snivelling mess.”

“Oh, what do you know?” Bill snapped.

He leapt from the pile of hay to stand theatrically in the middle of the barn, his arms spread wide. “You want to know how I became a caporegime in the Three Points Gang?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “Sure, there are plenty of people who can shoot straight, therefore plenty of people who are able to kill, but I’m one of the few people who will actually do it. And do it well and do it often.

“They nicknamed me the Golden Boy, because as soon as I got off the boat, at the age of twenty-one, I had two dozen kills to my name. I like killing people. Do you understand how screwed up that is?”

In all honesty, Dipper couldn’t see it. The man that stood before him didn’t look at all the murderous sort. He was annoying, a tad over-aggressive, but psychopathic?

“Your reaction to what happened yesterday?” Bill continued. “Perfectly reasonable. I should’ve known that teaching you to shoot was a bad idea. That was my mistake.”

“But I should be able to do it,” Dipper insisted. “Like you said, plenty of people can. It’s not hard. I’m just broken in that way.”

“Broken?” Bill shook his head. “No. See, I forget all the time that not everybody is like me.”

“That’s because you don’t give a damn about other people.” Dipper’s words were harsh, but they carried with them the slightest hint of a tease.

“Oh, dry up,” Bill huffed. “That’s not true. I just forget that not everyone is like me, that not everyone’s moral compass is smashed into a thousand bits, but I don’t know how in the world I forgot that about you. After all, it’s what I love about you the most.”

There was a heavy silence as shadows lengthened and leaves rustled. Bill walked over to where Dipper sat and offered his hand like he was proposing a dance.

“C’mon. Get up.”

“What? Why?”

“Just stand up.”

Dipper let Bill pull him to his feet.

“You say that you’re not mad,” Bill said. “And I believe you, but I still want to, uh, make it up to you. I don’t like having to owe people favours.”

Dipper gave a small, confused smile. “What do you mean?”

Bill took a deep breath, and pointed to his face. “Hit me, right now.”

At this, Dipper laughed. Bill’s suggestion was so childish, like when one sibling kicks the other and then hastily suggests that they receive the same abuse to avoid being ratted out.

“You’re serious?”

Bill cracked a smile. “I just feel like after all I’ve put you through, you have the right to punch me, and if it helps you get out of your slump then all the—“

He was cut off by a swift jab aimed at his left cheek. His teeth snapped together and he reeled back, crashing past one of the beams that supported the hayloft. He landed on his back, looking up at Dipper with shock and indignation.

“Je-e-esus! Pines!” He clutched his jaw.

Dipper smiled, only a little sorry. “You’re right. That did help.”

“How the hell can you punch like that?” Bill demanded, bewildered. “You’re barely a hundred pounds soaking wet and—Ow!” He massaged his cheek.

“My Grunkle Stan used to drill me in boxing whenever I visited him for the summer,” Dipper explained. “He would take me to see fights, show me how to punch, how to defend, the whole nine yards. I wasn’t all for it, but here’s the results.”

“That bastard,” Bill muttered. “With a swing like that you could really do a number on someone. If only you weren’t so disgustingly nice.”

Dipper watched Bill pick himself up and dust off his shirt. “Naw, Mabel’s the one you gotta watch out for. After every boxing session, she would lock the door to our room and have me teach her all the moves I learned. She’s much better than me.”

“Duly noted,” said Bill. “Nothing beats a good old fashioned pistol, but I’ll be damned if that ain’t a contender.”

“Well, of course nothing beats a pistol,” said Dipper. “But that’s because you can stand twenty feet away from your target, you cheater. I bet you’re the absolute worst when it comes to fisticuffs.”

“Says you.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Bill squared up, then he hesitated. “Only if you’re up for it. Don’t want you having another episode, after all. I don’t think I have the patience to deal with anymore of your bull.”

Bill, the master of pissing people off.

 Dipper scoffed. “I’m up for it. Do you need me to prove it?”

The man on the floor pushed into the further corner of his mind, Dipper took another swing at Bill.

It turned out that they were evenly matched. While Dipper had better technique garnered from summers upon summers of forced lessons, he didn’t hit on all sixes and wasn’t daring enough to aim for any soft spots. The punch he had delivered to Bill’s face, as much as it had shocked Bill, had surprised Dipper even more.

Bill, on the other hand, threw his punches hard and fast, but with little finesse, and he was more than liberal with his feints and fake outs. He didn’t keep a proper stance like Dipper did, and he liked to flit around, trying to get the best angle. It was a style of fighting that you pick up living on the streets—Grunkle Stan had been an expert—and Dipper wondered when in his life Bill had had to learn.

Eventually, the fight chased them out in the fields. Dusk had long since fallen, and they kept tripping over the ruts in the ground.

Bill threw a wild fist to Dipper’s left, but Dipper pulled his elbow down to intercept.

Another thing that Dipper took note of was that Bill wasn’t as willing to take hits as he was. Bill would sooner retreat than block a punch.

Still, Bill didn’t let up, and Dipper had no choice but to parry his next strike. Bill changed his mind at the last second and their arms locked together, pulling them off balance and spilling them both onto the rough ground.

Hat gone, shirt sticking to him, bruises peppering his arms and middle, Bill came up laughing. “Okay, so maybe you aren’t such a damsel in distress after all. I still beat you, though.”

“I think I can live with that.”

They lay like that for a while, side by side. Flowers swayed around them and crickets chirped from the darkness.

Dipper licked his lips, trying to catch his breath. The night air was cool and sweet.

“I’ve been wondering,” he said once his arms stopped aching. “Did you always want to be in the Mafia, to, you know, bump people off, or was it more of a gradual thing?”

“I don’t think anyone is born ready to kill,” Bill said. “You have to wait for the world to mess you up a bit first. I’d always thought I’d be a magician or a showman.  I mean, I was. Once.”

Dipper frowned. “Come again?”

“When I was really young, I ran away with a band of gypsies that passed through my hometown. It only lasted a month, but I learned how to talk to ghosts, so it wasn’t a complete waste of time.”

“Oh god, I have no idea if you’re lying or not.”

“I’m lying, gullible. You wanna know what I did do once? When Italy entered into the war, I lied about my age and tried to enlist.”

“Everyone always said they were going to do that,” Dipper gasped. “You idiot, you actually tried it?”

“What? And you didn’t?”

Dipper knew that Bill couldn’t see him rolling his eyes in the dark. “Well, yes—“

Bill howled. “Holy Moses, Pines! You? A soldier? What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that Mabel had bet me her quarter that I wouldn’t,” Dipper defended. “And I was fourteen. I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone.”

“A good thing, too. I can’t in my wildest dreams imagine you on a battlefield.”

“Same goes for you, strangely enough. You don’t strike me as the disciplined type. Plus, then I’d never had had the immense pleasure of making your acquaintance.” Dipper made his sarcasm as evident as possible.

“Oh, we would’ve met,” Bill assured. “Fate works in mysterious ways.”

“Yeah, we would have met, met in opposing trenches.” Dipper thought for a moment. “You know, I think that might have actually been preferable.”

Bill swung his fist in a lazy arc, landing a cheap shot to Dipper’s exposed middle.

“Hey!” Dipper all but squawked.

“It’s not as if we got off on the best foot to begin with,” Bill noted.

Dipper nodded. “What with you pointing a gun at my head and all.” He suppressed a shiver. “But now, I think I’d consider you a friend.”

Bill was silent, and Dipper counted five heartbeats before he felt a hand on his arm. He looked over at Bill, and his eyes bore into him. His expression dared Dipper to speak.

So he did. “What—what’s going on?”

“It’s nothing,” Bill said, returning his gaze to the sky. “Just enjoying the view.”

Every bit of Dipper tensed, the hard earth digging into his back. For a moment, he feared that he was going to start shaking again, but no, this was different. This was nice.

He couldn’t see in the dark, but he knew Bill must be smiling. After a second’s hesitation, Dipper laid his hand over Bill’s.

_Oh, good Lord, help me..._

And he smiled, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND NOW I CAN REALLY HAVE SOME FUN. WOOT


	8. Speaking Isn't Really That Easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we make a triple-decker idiot sandwich.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (i swear to god, the hardest part of this is always the chapter title)
> 
> Anyways! Thanks again for all the kudos and comments! I'm constantly blown away that all of your compliments.  
> Bonus fun fact: Speakeasys were also sometimes called blind tigers/blind pigs. I have no idea why, but there's a pun in there somewhere, I just know it...

Dipper had exactly six city blocks to figure out where he stood. In the few day’s rest since the impromptu visit to the barn, he still hadn’t made up his mind, and despite his slow pace and racing thoughts, it didn’t look as if much progress was going to be made this day either.

He hadn’t seen Bill since they had arrived back in Chicago several days ago. Bill had called the shop a few times—the ringing startling Dipper without fail—but it was mostly to talk about the possible conflict brewing in the city’s metaphorical underground.

Bill threw himself into his investigation and was unrelenting when he peppered Dipper with notes and theories about who could be out to get him. It made Dipper feel like he was the sidekick in a mystery novel, a Watson to Bill’s Holmes. He resolved to provide support accordingly, which, as Bill went on and on about his plans, Dipper figured would involve making sure the made man didn’t get himself killed.

The mundane but friendly conversations would have settled Dipper’s stomach, too, had it not been for the teasing remarks and quips. Bill didn’t even seem to be aware of them, as if it was just how he talked, second nature, but they made Dipper twitch and fiddle and laugh.

Mabel was not oblivious. If anything, she was more conscious of what was going on than even Dipper was.

She’d catch him whistling and ask him what had him so happy. She’d snap her fingers when he drifted off in conversations. She didn’t seem annoyed, almost the opposite. At every opportunity, she’d needle him about exactly which girl he was so stuck on.

But that was just the problem. It wasn’t a girl.

People jostled Dipper’s shoulders as he walked, and even though he was dressed like everyone else, walked like everyone else, kept his head bowed away from the wind like everyone else, he felt out of place. He was constantly on edge, nervous that someone was going to pounce on him for what he had done at the restaurant, for what he was thinking now.

He tried to think around it, to apply logic, but his erratic heart insisted otherwise.

And so he was left with six city blocks—four and a quarter now—to pull himself together and decide before he met up with Bill and fell apart again.

While Bill had upheld his half of the bargain by scouting out possible places for Mabel to find a job, he was also determined to change Dipper’s mind about the nature of speakeasys. Maybe his adversity to them offended Bill on a personal level, but he had insisted on showing one to Dipper in person.

Perhaps it was to put him at ease about Mabel working at one. Perhaps Bill only wanted to torment him further.

Either way, there were only three blocks remaining, and as Dipper hustled past an intersection he contemplated forcefully removing the butterflies from his stomach by way of slapping himself repeatedly.

He was set to meet Bill at a street corner a minute away from the illegal bar.

Apparently, the thing was right out on the street like any other respectable establishment. Dipper was surprised that something so clearly outlawed would be right out in the open, but then again it wasn’t as if the cops in this city were good for anything and hiding in plain sight was always a valid strategy.

He had to admit that their confidence was comforting, as if what they were doing wasn’t illegal at all. Now that Dipper thought about it, it was really only illegal if you got caught, and nobody in Chicago ever got caught.

With only a block to go, Dipper finally considered a retreat. There was no reason not to leave. Mabel could handle herself—a conclusion that Dipper would have come to eventually without Bill’s help thank you very much—and who cared what Bill thought? It actually empowered Dipper to know that he had the ability to stand Bill up, to leave him waiting.

But, of course, he didn’t. After all, he was disgustingly nice.

Still undecided, he turned the corner to find Bill hitting his head against a wall.

“What the— Bill!” Dipper went to grab Bill’s shoulder, as if he would need to pry the man away from the wall. “What the heck are you doing? If you didn’t have a concussion before...”

Bill took his sweet time answering, and his lack of words, a rarity for him, made Dipper worry that he really had done something to his brain.

He looked the same as usual, but it took a little longer than normal for him to register Dipper’s presence, though when he did he beamed.

“Pine Tree!” he exclaimed. “About time.”

Dipper was not about to be thrown off track. “What was that about?”

“Never mind it,” Bill said, throwing in his best casual shrug but not meeting Dipper’s eyes. “Just had to knock a few screws back into place, you know how it goes.”

“I really don’t.” Dipper shook his head. “Please don’t make a habit of that.”

“I won’t,” Bill promised. “Though it’s sweet when you worry.”

There was a wink followed by a very involuntary shiver down Dipper’s back.

He coughed, covering a blossoming smile with a tight fist. “Don’t we have somewhere to be? You know, somewhere sketchy and illegal and full of hooligans?”

“You slay me,” Bill said. “I keep telling you it’s not that bad. You think anyone would go there to drink if it was full of miscreants?”

“I guess not,” Dipper admitted. “But...”

Bill gave something between a laugh and a sigh. “Oh, just follow me, you pansy.”

Dipper walked alongside Bill up the street, noting how he slipped in between passerby like he was weaving through a forest. Dipper found it strange, because if Bill had thrown his shoulders back and walked tall, Dipper was sure the crowd would have cleared a path.

“You’ve never been to a club before?” Bill asked. “Not even before Prohibition? Not even a legal place?”

“I never had a reason before,” Dipper said. “In case you missed it, I’m not exactly a socialite.”

“Not one for dancing either?”

“Never,” Dipper said. “I’m not about to keep up with all those steps. And it’s so spastic and silly looking.”

“Are you secretly fifty years old?” Bill asked. “I bet you’re one of those people who are all about that old fashioned ballroom garbage.”

Dipper shrugged. “I can have personal opinions, can’t I?”

“You can,” Bill said. “But if they’re identical to everyone else’s, then they’re not really personal, are they? We’re living half-way through the most unconventional decade to ever be, and you’re still following the rules.” Bill shook his head.

Dipper straightened his hat, which had been knocked askew by a passing stranger. “That doesn’t mean you have to make yourself out to be some kind of freak just for the sake of it.”

“Dancing doesn’t make you a freak,” Bill scoffed.

Dipper spotted the mischievous twinkle a second too late before Bill ran out ahead of him to where the crowd had thinned. And there, right there, out in public, Bill performed the most perfect debauchery of the Charleston ever to be beheld by man, all legs and wild swings.

Dipper tried to gape and act scandalized, maybe even pretend like he didn’t know the crazy man dancing in the street, but he cracked and laughed when Bill slammed his shin into a wall and started cursing.

“Oh, god,” Dipper pleaded, his face beet red by association. “Please stop. You’re going to injure someone!”

People had stopped to stare, but moved on when Bill came off it. His grin was unabashed when he rejoined Dipper.

“And that,” he declared. “Is how you don’t give a damn.”

Dipper did his best to look annoyed. “That was terrifying. You looked like you were possessed.”

“That’s dancing for you,” Bill said. “You don’t think about it, you just feel it out, however horrible at it you may be.”

Dipper frowned. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Our destination is coming up on the left,” Bill cried. “Pick up the pace, Pines!” He rushed ahead, Dipper fumbling to keep up.

+++

The sign hanging above the door read _The Chicago Publishing Den_ , but the building housed anything but books.

The Den—as Bill called it—did indeed have its storefront right out on the street, but the original front door was just a facade, the real entrance having been tucked away past an unlocked gate. What had once been a large street window had been boxed in to show a diorama of dusty tomes and typewriters, a way of avoiding suspicion as a blank wall would have looked out of place.

There was still an hour until dusk, but as Bill led Dipper past the gate, a peppy violin melody could be heard from within.

Dipper pointed at the sign. “Did this place used to be a publishing house?”

“Naw,” said Bill. “We just have a sense of humour. Have you never heard the street name for a tommy gun?”

“A Chicago typewriter,” Dipper said. “That’s clever.”

“We joke that this place was named like a ship, because the old owner of this place was as faithful to his weapon of choice as he was to any lover.”

“Old owner?” Dipper asked, almost afraid to. “What happened to him?”

“Eh, the love didn’t go both ways.”

With that, Bill pushed open the door.

The Den had three levels, and the door opened onto the second.

The first floor was completely empty and tiled in wood, dance floor. A set of stairs with an ornate banister traced its right flank, leading up to the second floor, while circular tables with white tablecloths surrounded the front and the left. It was below street level, and Dipper could only figure that the floor must have been cut out and railings installed so as to incorporate the basement.

A radio in the corner was tuned to one of the few music stations, though it was apparently too early for dancing.

 Directly to the right of the door on the second floor was the main attraction: the bar. It gleamed a polished chestnut with bronze borders, stools with mismatched upholstery scattered in front. Bottles were stacked row upon row behind the counter.

Dipper only glimpsed the third floor briefly—a quaint balcony like those found cut out of the walls in theatres—before Bill pulled him by the arm to sit at the bar.

The Den was desolate, void of the crowds that would fill it by nightfall, but two women were already on bartending duty, wiping at glasses and chatting amiably. Dressed in beaded shifts that put their shoulders on full display, they glittered like chandeliers in the soft lighting. Dipper could hear the beads rattling from across the room.

“Girls!” Bill greeted them. “It’s been too long.”

The first to turn around, a woman so large and imposing Dipper wondered why she was behind the counter and not guarding the door, raised her eyebrow. “Oh, so it’s ‘girls’ now, is it? Not villainous temptresses?”

Bill sighed. “Aw, shoot. And here I thought you’d forgotten about that.”

“Forgotten about it?” the woman bellowed. “It was barely a week ago! You still owe me four dollars!”

The second woman—a Chinese, Dipper realized, the first he had ever seen in person—put a hand on the larger woman’s shoulder. “Give it up, Grenda. He was drunk off his rocker.”

Grenda narrowed her eyes. “Golden Boy’s never drunk. He’s got a sponge where his heart should be; the drink never gets to his brain.”

The Chinese looked over to Dipper. “So sorry about these two. I’m Candy.” She offered her hand to shake.

“Dipper.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh, yes. Bill said that—“

Bill cut her off. “Ah ah ah! I haven’t told him yet.”

“Told me what?” Dipper asked.

Grenda leaned back on the counter. “Now he’s in for it,” she muttered, smirking.

“So, funny story,” Bill said, drumming his fingers on the bar. “Remember two days ago when I— I mean, it really started about a week ago, but—“

“We’re both really, really sorry, Dipper!”

Dipper whirled around.

Mabel stood in the frame of the backdoor. She was dressed similar to the other two ladies, beaded skirt, bare arms, but with at least a dozen extra feathers tucked into her headband. She smiled, her shoulders scrunched in guilt.

“Mabel?” Dipper nearly choked. “What are you doing here? Why are you dressed like that?”

“You don’t like it?”

“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “Why are you here?”

“I kind of work here.”

Dipper’s mind swam. “Excuse me?”

Candy and Grenda pretended to be absorbed in their task of cleaning the counters while Bill and Mabel combined efforts to calm Dipper. It wasn’t an easy task. The shock, mixed with Dipper’s lingering fatigue—The Man still hadn’t completely vacated the premises—had him firing off questions left and right.

When had this happened? How long had it been going on? Why had he not been told? Why had Bill lied about Mabel not having a job?

Finally, Bill and Mabel got him to sit down and they explained, trading off places in the story whenever the other was unable to go on.

Mabel started. “I told you a while ago about how I wanted to find a job at a speakeasy, right? Because they’ll actually hire me? And guess what? They did.” A peal of nervous laughter. “Bill actually got me the job—“

“I wasn’t lying when I said that she had been wandering the streets,” Bill added. “I found here out there and—“

“You didn’t have to mention that.”

“Whoops,” said Bill. “Anyhow, I bumped into her while she was out all alone, and well, I couldn’t just let that continue. Have her bumbling around, waiting to get jumped? Hell no.”

“You’re making me sound fragile,” Mabel huffed. “I wasn’t bumbling around. So, Bill got me this job, and I really love it here. You’ve already met my soul sisters.” Mabel motioned to Candy and Grenda, who waved politely. “And it pays okay. I just knew that you’d flip like this when you found out, so I couldn’t tell you.”

Dipper cringed, remembering what Bill had told him about being over-protective, realizing that those words must have been passed along from Mabel herself.

“God, I’m sorry,” he said. “I was such a jerk about that.”

“You are a jerk,” Mabel agreed. “But I know you’re only a jerk because you care about me. Just—“ She pinched her fingers together. “Tone it down a bit?”

“I promise,” Dipper said. “Though, that doesn’t explain why Bill—“

“And that,” cried Bill hastily, loud enough to echo through The Den. “Is where I dropped the ball.”

“Not yet it isn’t,” Mabel snapped. “Let me talk.”

Bill muttered something like, “just let me get this over with,” but Mabel ignored him.

“It only took me a few days to change my mind about telling you,” she continued. “But by then I’d made up my mind that no matter what you said I’d keep my job.”

Dipper sighed. “You thought I’d make you quit.”

Mabel nodded, not bothering to comfort her brother or sugar coat. “And so I wanted it to be a surprise. I wanted you walk in be all shocked—kind of like this but not really.”

“The next part is all on me,” Bill said. “Mabel wanted me to get you here, to break the news—“

“I was too nervous to do it myself.”

“Exactly. And I knew you’d think it was weird if I did something nice for no reason. I’m just not that kind of person. I don’t do nice things.”

“But you did,” Dipper pointed out. “You got her the job.”

“Shut up,” Bill said. His face was as blank as he could make it, but Dipper could tell he was struggling to maintain his composure.

“I had to make it seem like a trade. That’s just how things have always worked for me. You give something, you get something. So, I came up with something easy for you to help me with. I thought, ‘Hey, I have this stupid meeting I have to go to. Why not invite Pine Tree along? It might be nice!’” Bill sucked in a long breath. “It was not nice.”

“I remember that much,” Dipper said.

“That entire night was my fault, everything that happened.That’s why I wanted to make it up to you, and why I—“ Bill looked Dipper dead in the eye, level, unwavering. “I am so sorry.”

Dipper was caught off guard by the sincerity. This wasn’t something whispered haphazardly in the dark. This was as real as it was going to get. Bill, well, Bill gave a damn.

“Me too, Dipper,” Mabel jumped in. “Again, I’m super sorry. For making you worry, for lying.”

“Hey, I’m no saint either,” Dipper protested. “Before, I didn’t tell you about doing business with Bill. That and I crushed your dreams.”

Mabel snorted. “Nobody can crush my dreams.”

“I guess we’re even, then?”

Mabel pulled her brother in for a hug. “Let’s not keep score.”

Dipper could feel Mabel relax in his arms, relieved to have finally gotten the weight off her chest.

From over Mabel’s shoulder, Dipper noticed Bill staring, probably feeling like an intruder in this heartfelt sibling moment.

Dipper gave him a nod, and he nodded back.

“Plus,” said Mabel as she pulled away. “If we did keep score, I’d absolutely whoop your sorry butt. C’mon, let me show you around!”

+++

As night fell, the speakeasy filled. People, young and old, male and female, filled the dance floor and tables. Chatter rose to the rafters and the music had to be cranked higher and higher until it reached a cacophony as a man arrived with a trumpet.

Mabel had had to return to work, Candy and Grenda were fighting a losing battle against the rush of customers, and so Dipper sat alone at a table next to the dance floor, glaring at the bottle that sat opposite him.

“Not tonight,” he mumbled to himself.

He had no idea where Bill had gone. Probably scamming someone in a bet or seducing a beautiful woman. Dipper had half a mind to check to make sure that these were not the case, but he stayed put. It wasn’t any of his business, though that didn’t stop him from mulling it over.

Watching young couples swing across the dance floor, the thoughts from his walk returned, the same thoughts that seemed to be splitting rent with The Man in his head.

He was on the verge of having them evicted when, whoop never mind, he spotted Bill on the other side of the dance floor. Suit rumpled, hat gone entirely, he was leaning against a wall, laughing at a joke that Dipper hadn’t told.

Dipper swore into his folded hands.

This man. This man who had pulled him from the good grace of the law and who was now threatening to pull him from good grace entirely.

Dipper heard someone collapse into the chair next to him.

“The rush finally let up,” Mabel announced. “Grenda and Candy let me go on account of you being a lonely loser. Seriously Dip, we can see you being a wet blanket from all the way upstairs.”

Dipper leaned back in his chair. “You know this isn’t my kind of thing, Mabel. I’m not a party person.”

“I’ll lay off,” she relented. “But, maybe you should have brought someone. Like, oh, I don’t know, whatever girl you’re so wound up about, the one you keep insisting doesn’t exist.”

“That’s ‘cause she doesn’t.”

“Applesauce! I want to meet and judge her. You should have brought her.”

Dipper weighed his options. He had already lied to Mabel about Bill once, and tonight had only further proven why they shouldn’t keep the truth from each other. Mabel would be honest. He could trust her. She would be his coin flip, he decided, the final factor he needed to make up his mind once and for all. It would be heads or tails.

“No, I couldn’t have brought her.”

“Mhmm?” hummed Mabel. “And why’s that?”

Deep breath. Heads or tails.

“Because it’s the other way around, Mabel. He’s the one who brought me here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kind of beat the crap out of me--I fought the words and the words won--so if everyone's okay with it I think I'm just gonna crawl back under the rock from whence I came and stay there for a few days.


	9. Scratches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They could have just minded their own business, but nooo...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, you... Yes, you! Don't think I can't see you there, uh, Grace was it? Yeah, Grace. I just wanted to say-- No, not you, Miles. I just said I was talking to Grace. Yeah, that's fine. No, you don't have to be sorry, you have to be quiet. Sheesh. Okay, so-- Oh my GOD, Katherine! I said I wasn't talking to-- Fine, fine. Maybe I am talking to you. Just put that thing down, it looks sharp... Jesus... And, oh, okay FINE, Quentin. I guess I'm just talking to all of you know, aren't I? It's just as well since all I wanted to say was THANK YOU. No need to be so pushy.
> 
> (In all seriousness guys, thank you all so so much. If there was any chapter that I would have given up on had I not your support, then it would have been this one. Cheers.)

Ten o clock had come and gone by the time Dipper stepped out onto the street outside the speakeasy.

Chicago’s usual buzz of street noise had quieted to a dull hum. People wandered past, but they were like misty apparitions, invisible, irrelevant. The cold pricked at his skin, and the air was utterly still.

Was it that the city holding its breath just as he was? If so, did its fingers clamp, eyes wander, or heart skip? Dipper hoped not. He wouldn’t wish this agony on anyone.

He was waiting alone, but not for Mabel.

Mabel had to finish her shift for work, that and make up for the time she had lost when she had dragged her brother up to the speakeasy’s balcony following his confession on the dance floor.

Using her employee status, she had cleared the balcony, closed the door to the stairwell, and sat Dipper down. They had a perfect view of the floors below, of the heads of dancers swirling like Dipper’s stomach.

She opened with, “And here I thought I was the weird one.”

Dipper gulped. “Is it weird?”

“Of course it’s weird,” Mabel said. She rubbed her bare arms. “That’s just not how it’s supposed to work, Dip.”

“I know.”

“You’re not lying, are you? You’re being absolutely serious?”

“Yes,” Dipper stuttered. “Why would I lie about something like this? I came to you because I thought you’d be able to help and—“

“I’m sorry,” Mabel cut him off. “I’m— this is all so confusing.”

“You’re confused?” Dipper’s vision blurred at the edges. “What about me, huh? Do you think I understand why any of this is happening?”

Mabel blinked. “I— I mean, you don’t?”

Dipper shook his head furiously. “I don’t, I really don’t. It’s like everything inside of me is breaking down and I can’t stop it.”

“Dipper—“

“I get it. I’m broken.”

Mabel stood. “Dipper Pines,” she commanded. “Stop it. I won’t have my brother thinking like that. I just won’t.”

“But you said it yourself,” Dipper protested. “This isn’t how it’s supposed to work.” The guilt he had been harbouring gushed out of him along with his words. “I can’t help it, Mabel. I’m happy, I’m so inexplicably happy around him, and it makes me sick. He’s the worst person to make me feel like this. He has no right!”

Mabel was silent for a while, the cheery music from the dance floor below doing nothing to brighten the mood. Then, “Some guy, huh?”

Dipper tipped his head back, a shaky breath heaving through his chest. “Bill is...” He trailed off, his rant apparently having expended the entirety of his scrambled mind’s vocabulary.

“You haven’t told anyone else?” Mabel asked.

“Who else do I have to tell?”

“Bill, for one,” Mabel said, but when she saw Dipper tense up, she didn’t press the issue. “I don’t want you getting trouble is all. People don’t tend to take well to things that fall outside the general consensus.”

 “So, you’re okay with this?”

“Again, I don’t understand it, but I guess it doesn’t really matter what I think. So long as you’re okay with it, then so am I.”

Dipper squeezed his eyes shut. But it did matter what she thought. It mattered what everyone thought.

He repeated the only thing he was sure of. “I don’t know.”

Mabel crossed her arms. “Why can’t you just be happy? Really, what’s stopping you?”

“The natural order of things?”

“Horse feathers!” Mabel puffed out her chest. “Years ago, the ‘natural order of things’ had women at the bottom of the food chain. Now, do I really look like I’m about to become someone’s lunch?”

“Definitely not.”

“You know what I think?” Mabel challenged. “No one else is keeping you from being happy. You’re the one who’s keeping you from being happy.”

+++

Out on the street, Dipper’s breath curdled in the cold. He sighed, the sigh taking form and drifting upwards. After a moment, another wisp muddled with his.

“It’s getting cold,” Bill noted.

Dipper rubbed his hands together. “I know. I hate winter.”

“Really? I think it’s beautiful. The snow falls and everything is quiet and peaceful.”

“As opposed to summer or spring? In the winter everything dies.”

Bill grinned, his cheeks rosy. “The cold roots out all the weaklings. Only the strongest survive, like the evergreens for example.”

Dipper wanted to scream. Bill liked him. He had to. The compliments, the gestures, whatever it was that had transpired back at the barn: the evidence was irrefutable.

So why didn’t he say anything?

Then Dipper realized that that was exactly Bill’s game. Bill wasn’t going to say anything. On purpose. If anything was to happen between them, Dipper would have to be the one to instigate it.

Dipper clenched his fist.  “Oh, hell.”

“What’s that?” Bill asked.

“Uh,” Dipper fumbled. “It’s— I was thinking about how far it is to get back to the shop is all. It’s really late now, and it’s dark—“

“I can walk with you if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I’d like that. Thanks.”

They walked shoulder to shoulder down the street, Bill pointing out buildings and recounting the various misdeeds that had taken place within their walls, Dipper content to listen.

Well, half-listen. His thoughts were boiling over to the point that he was surprised they weren’t pouring out his ears.

Dipper felt like he had just been handed a bomb. He had to dissect it delicately. One wrong move and it would obliterate him.

Just as he was about to open his mouth, to snip the first wire, Bill yanked him by the arm to crouch behind a parked car. Dipper nearly smashed his head into a tire and his hands ground into the pavement. Bill, of course, landed with grace, his back held dramatically to the car hull.

At this point, Dipper didn’t have to ask any stupid questions as all his senses went into red alert. “What’d you see?” he whispered.

Bill peeked around the car. “It was the man from the restaurant,” he whispered back. “The Northwest representative.”

“The fat guy? The one who ran?”

“Yeah. Porky, I think I’ll call him.”

Dipper leaned over Bill’s shoulder to sneak a look across the street.

On the opposite side, a man walked with his hat pulled low to his face. Round and short, he did look familiar.

 “You think he’s come back to finish the job?”

“On his own? Not a chance.”

“So why are we hiding then?” Dipper asked, then he stopped. “Wait, you want to follow him, don’t you?”

Bill nodded. “He wouldn’t be out alone at night for no reason. He’s definitely up to something. If it’s got anything to do with whatever gang the Northwests are in league with, then I want to know where he’s going. No one double-crosses the Three Points gang.”

“Lovely,” Dipper muttered.

Bill took note of Dipper’s less than sunny disposition and frowned. “I’m not going to make you come with me. I can handle this on my own.”

At this, Dipper raised at an eyebrow. “And have you get yourself killed? Don’t you remember what happened last time, or was the bump on the head too much for you?”

Bill’s smile returned. “As long as you’re up for it.”

“Let’s tail this creep.”

+++

Dipper learned something new about Bill that night: he was like a sniffer dog when it came to hiding spots. Alleyways, doorframes, parked cars, light posts, trees. You name it, Bill could somehow wedge himself behind it.

Dipper did decent job of keeping up, though upon several occasions he had to be reminded to duck his head.

Porky the representative kept his pace brisk, checking over his shoulder every so often and turning up his jacket collar.

Dipper figured that Bill was right to be suspicious. People only acted like that when they had something to hide.

They fell into such a rhythm—look, run, hide, repeat—that Dipper hardly noticed when they crossed over into the more industrial sector of the city, the storefronts giving way to brick warehouses, the street lights thinning out, the dark corners swelling to cover large chunks of buildings.

Porky stopped in front of a warehouse, Bill and Dipper scuttling to stay out of his sight.

With a final, paranoid glare at empty air, Porky slipped through an unlocked metal door and disappeared into the warehouse.

“Do we follow him in?” Dipper hissed. “This feels a little déjà vu-esque.”

“Again,” Bill said. “You can bow out whenever you want. No shame. Besides, he wouldn’t have known that we’d follow him, so this can’t be a set up. I’m not that stupid.”

“That’s debatable,” Dipper quipped.

Bill ignored the jab. “Follow my lead.”

Once inside the warehouse, Bill leapt immediately to slink along behind a row of crates.

Voices could be heard echoing in the rafters, but Dipper could tell that those speaking were in the middle of the room.

The crates, stacked three high and well above Dipper’s head, made for excellent cover as they inched closer to the voices, now less than ten feet away.

“—setbacks, but nothing major.” This was Porky talking. “We’re ready to deliver if you’ve cleaned up all the loose ends.”

Now an unfamiliar voice. “You’ll have to excuse us, but we’ve decided to abstain for at least a week more, if not two.”

Dipper squinted, peering through a slat between the crates.

Five men stood in a semi-circle around Porky. Each wore the Mafia’s uniform to a T; their suits were all immaculate. The man who spoke to Porky couldn’t be distinguished visually from the rest, but by the way the others held themselves, Dipper assumed that the man must hold the same rank as Bill: he was a caporegime under a rival gang.

Despite the gangsters looming over him, Porky stood as tall as his tiny legs would allow. The backing of the Northwest Company seemed to be all he needed to feel protected.

“Whatever for?” Porky questioned, arms folded. “Last we spoke, you told me that your people were ready to receive our shipment.”

The caporegime sneered. “Don’t sound so smug, little man. These deals are only a bonus to us, remember? Your priorities are in sales, ours are elsewhere.”

“They’re in bloody massacre, is what you mean to say.”

The capo shrugged. “Sticks and stones. The boss says we need to take out our business competitors, I ask how soon.”

Porky’s nostrils flared, an appropriate look. “But you haven’t yet, or you’d be able to follow through and buy our goddamned product as promised.”

“Maybe things would be going faster if the information you gave us on Three Points was actually reliable. Are you perhaps withholding anything from us?” The capo leered, and Porky took a step back.

“Let’s not shoot the messenger, alright gentlemen?” He tittered nervously. “As far as I know, those files we gave you were everything we were able to glean from those suckers. I swear on my life.”

Dipper tore his eyes away from the slat to find Bill’s gaze fixed on the floor, unreadable.

He had heard the same as Dipper. The Northwests had played his people. They had made a fool of him, and Dipper could only imagine what he was thinking.

“Bill?” he asked, barely even a whisper.

Bill remained unresponsive, but his hands were clenched, his knuckles white.

“Bill,” Dipper tried again. “We need to get out of here.”

He shook Bill’s shoulder in an attempt to get him to snap out of whatever trance he was locked in, but Bill tore away, elbowing the crate they were hiding behind.

The sound boomed like a drum through the warehouse. The voices stopped.

“Flippin’ hell,” Dipper swore, still quiet, though he wasn’t sure what the point was anymore. The sound must have thundered for miles.

There was a tense silence.

“Someone’s there.” One of the gangsters.

“You two,” ordered the caporegime. “Go check it out.”

Dipper’s heart pounded in his ears. _This is how I’m going to die, a deer converged upon by wolves._

 Suddenly, he felt Bill take his hand. He looked up, but there was no feeling behind the gesture. Bill’s face was still blank, and Dipper shivered. He didn’t even look angry, just empty.

Hands locked together, Bill lead Dipper to crouch at the corner of the crates, right where the one of the gangsters would appear when they came around the corner.

And then he did, and Bill put a bullet through his head.

It happened just like that, methodically, almost like it had been rehearsed beforehand, so fast that The Man had no time to interrupt Dipper before he turned to see Bill shoot the other gangster less than a millisecond later.

Both bodies hit the floor almost simultaneously.

The three other made men had more time to react than their fallen comrades, and by the time Bill and Dipper scurried to their next piece of cover—a row of metal pillars that held up the grated walkways above—the space roared with gunfire.

Bill returned fire as Dipper used his free hand to cover his ear.

Pot-shots were exchanged and then the noise disappeared almost like someone had flipped a switch.

Dipper noticed a side door hanging half open not thirty paces away. It would be a sprint, but there was sparse cover, and it was their best chance at escape.

He nudged Bill, who jumped and stared at him, almost like he had forgotten that Dipper was there at all, despite their hands being intertwined. Dipper motioned to the door. “There.”

Bill gave no indication that he had understood, but along with Dipper, he crouched, getting ready to run.

They got three steps bullet-free before the hail started again. Bill fired three shots in response, never breaking stride.

They were a meter from the door when Dipper’s foot caught, their hands so tangled that the blunder spilled them both across the floor before they broke apart.

Bill was on his feet in a flash, but Dipper’s world spun.

From the floor, he saw Bill running for the door, saw another gangster duck around a corner, saw him drop, saw Bill stepping over him.

“Wait,” Dipper called, using the crates to pull himself to stand. “Bill? Where are you—“

Bill turned and his eyes were no longer vacant, they were wild.

Dipper remembered what Bill had said back at the barn, how he enjoyed killing people. His gaze was piercing, but his face was flat, like his world had collapsed into two dimensions, point and shoot.

And then Dipper noticed the gun levelled at his chest. A trigger can be pulled in less than a second, but in that time Bill noticed it too.

“Bill?” Dipper gasped.

Bill’s passive mask cracked. “I didn’t—“

A shot whizzed past Dipper’s ear, and from somewhere deeper in the warehouse a string of curses erupted as the caporegime discovered his fallen men.

This spurred them both on and out past the door, into the night. They ran together through the grid of near identical warehouses, not stopping until they could hear nothing but their beating hearts and shallow breath.

+++

They ended up hiding out in an abandoned office on the outskirts of the industrial district. Dipper found the door. Bill kicked it down.

It was there, once they were safe, that Dipper would have given himself permission to lose it, but he didn’t, because, like always, Bill was one step ahead of him.

Dipper found him in the back room, slumped against a pile of undelivered newspapers.

The room smelt like old paper and printing ink. A streetlight directly outside a broken window illuminated the space in shattered light, but Bill had sat himself in the shadows. He had lost his hat in their escape and looked about as, if not more, dishevelled than the night at the barn.

When Dipper settled next to him, he stirred.

“To be fair,” he said. “I warned you.”

“Warned me about what?” Dipper asked. “That you’re part of the mob? That there are people out to get you? That being around you is dangerous?”

“That I’m dangerous. That I kill people for a living. That I’m very, very good at it.”

Dipper nodded. He couldn’t exactly argue against that. “Is it weird that I had hoped you were lying?”

“No, I wish that sometimes too.” Bill sighed. “And you wouldn’t have been my first, either.”

“Your first what?”

“My first piece of collateral damage.”

Dipper bit at his lip. “Are you going to explain what happened back there? Was it, like, a fugue state or what?”

“Nothing that dramatically zen, Pines,” Bill assured. “It’s just business mode. It’s how I get things done, how I keep from—“

“Pulling a Dipper?” Dipper suggested.

“If that’s what you want to call it, then yes. It’s what keeps the myth of the Golden Boy alive and well. I’m able to draw these lines across the different parts of myself and slip between them. It gets the job done, but—“ Bill stuttered. “I’m not really a whole person.”

Dipper wasn’t sure when it happened, but suddenly he was leaning against Bill and their shoulders were touching. Neither of them flinched, though.

“I wouldn’t mind being able to pick and choose parts of myself,” Dipper mused. “Instead of being this tangled mess. Instead of breaking down as soon as things get tough, this hypocrite who tells people what to do with their lives when even I don’t know where mine is going.”

“You’re whole, though,” Bill argued. “You’re genuine. The gold is only skin deep, Pines. One scratch and it’s all gone.”

“Scratches give things character. If what I saw back there was the gold, then I think I prefer whatever’s underneath.”

Dipper heard Bill’s breath hitch, and a moment later—oh—his head was resting on Dipper’s shoulder. The motion brought Dipper back to himself.

Oh, God. What was he doing?

The abandoned office descended into silence as Dipper registered Bill’s weight, his presence. Bill was leaning against him, in need of his support when it should have been the other way around.

Dipper was frozen, afraid to move, afraid to break the surface tension on this perfect moment. His nerve abandoned him completely.

But he couldn’t let this moment pass, and, as with all the other times his nerve failed him, he let someone else’s words become his own.

He spoke softly.

_And so, to you, who always were_

_Perseus, D’Artagnan, Lancelot_

_To me, I give these weedy rhymes_

_In memory of earlier times_

_Now all those careless times are not_

_Of all my heroes, you endure_

_Words are such silly things! too rough,_

_Too smooth, they boil up and congeal_

Dipper felt Bill shift, but he continued.

_And neither of us likes emotion—_

And there was a hand on his cheek, cold, cupping his face, willing him to look up. He did, and Bill was less than an inch away, then a little less still.

_And you know how I really feel—_

The last few words were no more than sighs, no more than wisps.

_And we’re together. There, enough..._

First their foreheads, then their lips pressed together. Dipper’s insides melted to champagne at the touch, and he wrapped his arms around Bill’s neck, pulling him closer. Bill opened to him, deepening the kiss, and Dipper felt him, soft and gentle and—Dipper realized—scared.

Maybe Bill hadn’t been playing games after all.

When they pulled apart, Dipper gasped, “Dear Lord.”

Bill’s grin split his face, and Dipper couldn’t help but smile along.

He laughed, covering his mouth in his hands. “ I— I love you.” He said it as if it were a revelation. “Oh my god, I love you.”

“Well, what’d you know?” Bill said. “Looks like I love you, too.”

They kissed again, and the night was warm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pardon me while I put this fic on hiatus for a month so I can go off and write my original stuff. Hopefully that *points upwards* is reason enough to let me lure you back into 20s hell in about a month's time.
> 
> (and yes, I did plan it out so this chapter would be the last one before November. Ciao! *evil laughter*)
> 
> Poem used in this chapter is Dedication by Stephen Vincent Benet.


	10. Goodness Gracious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Then you bring your mind, to rest against mine  
> But the mind has no say in affairs of the heart"  
> -The Writing's on the Wall, OK GO

Shoulder to shoulder, on the roof of the decrepit office, they watched the city wake up.

The building stood four stories tall and afforded a perfect view of Navy Pier stretching out into the water a ways down the coast, its ships coming and going like lethargic bees buzzing from a domed hive. Lake Michigan faded to gray in the distance, and the rumble of Chicago’s streets was for now a quiet murmur.

Dipper spoke as the sunrise bloomed on the horizon. “I didn’t have any nightmares last night.”

“Is that something to be worried about?” Bill asked, nestling into Dipper’s side. The Windy City lived up to its name, and they had to huddle to fight off the bite of a fast approaching winter.

“Ever since the incident at the restaurant, I’ve had nightmares about what happened,” Dipper explained. It took no effort at all to conjure up images of The Man and his lake of blood.

“I thought that after seeing you”—He chose his words carefully—“deal with those men last night, I thought things would get worse, but nothing’s happened. It’s almost as if I’m becoming desensitized to the whole thing.”

Bill watched the sunrise creep over the warehouses, rosy light filling in the cityscape like a watercolour.

“Perhaps you were just distracted,” he suggested, offering a cheeky smile. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

Dipper prodded him.“I’m being serious. I don’t like that this is becoming mundane.”

Bill sighed, seeing Dipper fretting. “Humans adjust, Pines. That’s just what we do.”

Dipper muttered something non-committal, so Bill continued.

“Don’t feel as if you need to punish yourself. You can’t blame yourself for what happened. You weren’t out to cause anyone harm, and so far, miraculously, we’ve only been acting out of self-defence. That’s actually bad form on my part, now that I think of it.”

Dipper swallowed, his throat dry in the cold. “You’re right, I’m worrying over nothing.”

But what did it say that he was fine and dandy with death so long as he wasn’t the one responsible?

“You wouldn’t be you without your paranoia,” Bill said. “But perhaps you could put it to rest for a while.”

Bill’s kiss was like a cup of coffee: it warmed Dipper down to his toes and made his head buzz. It was sweet, but Dipper needed something more, something to drown out the thoughts in his head, the whispers of guilt and fear, the doubt that pounded like torrential rain.

He hoped he wasn’t developing a habit, but he needed Bill.

And so as Bill withdrew, Dipper grabbed his shirt and pulled him back by the collar. He overbalanced, however, and Bill fell on top of him with a yelp of surprise.

 “Pines—“

Dipper shut him up with another kiss, a hungry one. He wanted to memorize everything—the texture, the taste, the way their chests pressed together, breathing and gasping as one. He stuffed the details like cotton into his head.

 Bill was only caught off guard for a second, and he recovered with grace, pressing Dipper to the roof and running fingers through his tangled hair.

Dipper allowed his eyes to drift closed. How liberating it was to not have to think for a while.

He was finally awoken by the moan that slipped past his lips—he hadn’t even been aware that he could make sounds like that.

His eyes shot open.  He wanted to slap a hand over his mouth, but both were pinned to his chest. A knot like a wad of clay formed in his stomach when he realized his position, trapped underneath Bill, possibly moments away from...  away from...

“Get off me,” he demanded, panicked, his words slurred between Bill’s mouth and his. “Damn it, get off me right now.”

Bill blinked. “Wha—?”

Dipper gave Bill a shove, tears beading at his eyes as the high wore off and reality slammed into him like the cold Chicago wind.

Bill sat down hard. “I thought—” His face was a mix of offence and confusion, but somehow concern won out. “Did you not—?”

Dipper shook his head furiously, clamping hands over his eyes, as if doing so would block the thoughts that still lingered.

How easy it had been to imagine his back arching off the rooftop.

“No. No-no-no. We can’t— I can’t—“

“Dipper!” Bill snapped his fingers, and Dipper flinched.

He focused on Bill’s face, flushed a blood red, and his hair, which was now messy beyond help. Unkempt and flustered, he was miles away from how he normally presented himself.

Awe and horror mixed together like chemicals in Dipper’s gut, but it was the twinge of pride—he had done this, he had undone this devil of a man—that acted as a catalyst. He felt like he might be sick.

 “What’s wrong?” Bill asked, though there was a sadness to his words that told he already knew. “Do you want to talk?”

Dipper gulped, steadying himself, wiping his face. “Yes, talk. We ought to talk, talk about what— what it is we’re doing, what we’re getting ourselves into.”

Bill leaned back, regarding the man with whom he’d spent the night. “Well, I’m listening.”

Dipper fidgeted. “It’s only that, well, you know that this can’t continue, right? What happened last night, what happened just now, it— it can’t happen again.”

“And why’s that?” Bill’s face was unreadable.

“Because it’s immoral and disgusting and wrong, Bill.” Dipper’s voice was small. “Because what we did goes against every rule in every book. I’m not supposed to love you. I’m not supposed to want you.”

“Yes, God forbid we do something illegal,” Bill snorted. “But, I see where you’re coming from. If you’d rather pretend as if all this never happened,”—he paused, gathering resolve—“then so be it.”

Dipper bit his lip, tears threatening again. “I don’t want to pretend,” he said, holding back a whine.

“Then don’t.”

Bill gripped Dipper’s shoulders, and Dipper could see the determination etched into every inch of his face, the ghost of a smile that still played on his lips even when it had no right to be there. “Then don’t pretend. Why should we? You are all the good in my world, and I’ll be damned if the bad is going to take you away.”

Dipper could do nothing but stare back. He wondered if Bill knew he had galaxies in his eyes.

“No one can know,” Dipper finally said. “Everything that happens between us has to be kept a secret. We can’t tell anyone.”

There was a pause, and then they spoke as one. “Except Mabel.”

“Because she’ll find out anyways,” Bill clarified.

Dipper rubbed the back of his neck. “I already told her, in part.”

“She appreciated that, I bet.”

“Regardless, we need to be careful,” Dipper continued. “So, no public displays of affection, no teasing, no touching unless we’re alone. None of your weird, albeit flattering, comments. Are we crystal?”

“Clear,” Bill agreed. “But you won’t make it easy on me, handsome.”

 Dipper scoffed, the clouds above them breaking apart, the sun shining through. “See? It’s that. You can’t go saying things like that.”

“Don’t pretend as if you don’t like it,” Bill quipped. “There, you smiled. I caught you. You smiled!”

“Oh, dry up.”

Dipper pulled Bill in for another kiss, but only so that Bill wouldn’t be able to see his grin. In the end, it hardly mattered. Dipper’s muffled laughter gave him away.

“We’re insane.”

“I know.”

“This won’t end well.”

“I know that, too.”

“I love you.”

A sigh. “I love you too, and that’s where things get tricky.”

+++

Down on the street and walking away from the rougher part of the city, Dipper was astonished to see people going about their daily routines. His world had been picked up and shaken like a snow globe, but everyone else still had their feet affixed firmly to the ground.

Business-types hustled to work, children hawked sensational headlines from street corners, and gals hung off the arms of their gents.

Watching them, Dipper was acutely aware of the strange gravity that pulled him towards Bill. It didn’t take much to resist, but it was persistent and impossible to ignore.

Bill picked at his suit, rubbing at the dirt stains. “I can’t stand walking around like this. Mind if we make a detour?”

“Where abouts?” Dipper asked.

“My apartment is maybe a block from here. It won’t take long, I promise.”

Dipper had to admit, he was curious about where Bill lived. He imagined a swanky apartment with silk curtains and tiled floors. Plus, the night hadn’t been particularly restful for him, and he needed to sit down lest he pass out while crossing the road and be flattened by on oncoming motorcar.

“Lead the way, my good man.”

Ten minutes, two near misses with traffic, and one argument over exactly how much of a resemblance Bill bore to Rudolph Valentino—they were very similar, or so Dipper claimed—and they stopped in front of a door set in the brick of a drugstore.

Dipper took a few steps back, peering over the striped awning of the shop. A wooden sign read _Hollyburn’s Pharmacy Drug Store_ in green paint. The windows of the apartments above were stacked three high, and some were covered over with cardboard.

None of the buildings on the block fared much better, many of them sporting crumbling plaster or chipped paint. Pigeons strung themselves like popcorn on telephone wires, and the car parked adjacent to the drugstore appeared to be missing its front wheels.

“This is where you live?” Dipper asked.

“Hardly,” Bill said. “I’m too busy to live much of anywhere. I jump between offices and safe houses and the backs of cars most of the time, so this place is more a storage locker than anything. Now, if I could just remember where I hid the key...”

Dipper helped Bill pry away bricks from the wall in search of the door key.

“It’s been a while since I visited,” Bill apologized. “I just pay the rent and no one questions anything.”

Dipper’s finger nicked something in the wall, and he drew back, hissing under his breath. “Which brick did you say it was behind?”

“Nineteen one way ten the other,” Bill said. “1910. I remember because that’s the last time Halley’s Comet was seen, a very auspicious time for ritual sacrifices, I hear. But was it nineteen from the side or—? Oh, got it.”

Bill slid a brick from the mortar and withdrew the key.

Inside, the stairwell was bare of any decoration, save the occasional dust gremlin. Unsavoury, it was the kind of place where you could stub out a cigarette underfoot and no one would give you a second glance.

They climbed to the second floor before Bill turned to unlock door number 205.

_“Beinvenue_ ,” he said, somehow managing to butcher the entire French language in a single word. He swung the door open. “My home is your home, etcetera etcetera.”

Bill breezed into the apartment, leaving Dipper to trail behind.

The place was a far cry from the Ritz, that was for sure. Dipper was greeted by a cramped hallway that led into the kitchen, the counters of which sported grime in inch-high snowdrifts. Wallpaper peeled like tree bark, and when Bill pulled back the curtains from the front window, the space swam with dust to the point that Dipper was afraid to inhale.

Besides the kitchen, there was a washroom and a bedroom, the latter of which Bill sauntered towards.

 “I won’t be a bootlegger’s second,” he promised. “And don’t be cheeky and think you can peek in on me.”

He planted a quick kiss on Dipper’s forehead, and Dipper was secretly delighted that Bill had to stand on tip-toe to reach.

 Bill locked the door behind him, and Dipper was left alone with his curiosity to explore. He started with the kitchen.

He opened the first cabinet—the cabinets and counters were just about the only pieces of furniture to be found in the entire apartment—and stopped dead in his tracks. He was confronted, not with cans of beans or boxes of cookies, but with what seemed to be the entire contents of a weapons locker: Tommy guns and pistols and revolvers and about five others that Dipper didn’t know the names for. A shotgun dominated the middle shelf.

“Uh, Bill?”

“Yes?” came Bill’s voice from behind the door.

“Any reason why you have heavy artillery where your canned goods should be?”

There was a pause, and then Bill laughed. “Does it look like have a girlfriend to cook for me? Naw, those are my toys. It isn’t practical to carry more than a pistol on you when you’re walking the streets, so I store all my specifics here. You want anything?”

“I’ll pass,” Dipper said, closing the cabinet, the door hanging at an angle.

“Are you snooping?” Bill asked, though he didn’t sound particularly offended. “I’m telling you, there isn’t much to see. There’s the bathroom, but—“

“I’m looking in the bathroom!” Dipper declared.

“Curses!” Bill feigned.

There was no door in the bathroom’s doorframe, just empty hinges as a suggestion of what might have once been. The only things remarkable about the space were the navy jacket and pants than hung over the edge of the bathtub. They were spattered with red.

“Don’t ask where the blood came from.” Bill appeared in the doorway next to Dipper. His new shirt was robin’s egg blue. “Whatever story you’re imagining is much more exciting than the real thing.”

“This whole place is like the set of a motion picture,” Dipper said, turning his back to the bloody clothes. “Very dramatic.”

“You’re not put off?”

“I’m trying not to think about it. To level with you, I’m still trying to piece you together. But that’s what makes you interesting: you’re an adventure in and of yourself.”

Bill grinned. “There’s my little poet.”

“I’ve been spending too much time around you.”

“You say too much, I say too little.” Bill smirked. “And here, I have a gift.”

It was then that Dipper saw Bill’s arm held behind his back.

 “Listen,” Bill said. “I know you’re not comfortable with it, but I’d feel better knowing you could defend yourself properly.”

Bill offered Dipper the revolver grip first.

After a moment’s hesitation, Dipper took it, feeling the gun’s weight in his hand. He fiddled with it, popping the cylinder to the side and eyeing the bullets hidden within.

“I’m not saying you’ll have to use it,” Bill said. “But that wad with the Northwest’s and their mystery gang has got me on edge. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Thank you.” Dipper replaced the cylinder with a click.“With any luck, I won’t have to use it.”

“Luck does seem to be the issue,” Bill intoned.

+++

Bill double checked that he had locked the apartment door, and they descended back to street level. From there, they hopped a streetcar and rode down State Street.

The streetcar provided leather loops to steady yourself as you travelled, and Bill grabbed the same one as Dipper so that their hands rested next to each other.

The only other passengers besides them were an elderly woman burdened by a giant fur coat and her husband. The two were locked in a ravenous argument over which brand of store-bought cookie was best, so Dipper figured that he was able to speak freely.

“About the Northwests,” he said. “Now that you know that business deal is never going to go through, I suppose you’ll be wanting your hooch back?”

Bill blinked away from where he’d been watching the window. “My what now?”

“Your giggle water? Hair of the dog? Liquid courage?” Dipper asked, listing off various slang terms for liquor, all of which he’d learned from Mabel. “The gin? The crates that you stored in the back of my store? You do still want those, don’t you?”

“Oh, those,” Bill said as if he’d forgotten about their existence entirely. “Absolutely. I’d have to think up a pretty grand excuse if I misplaced a whole shipment.”

He laughed, but there didn’t seem to be much humour in it.

Dipper frowned. “Alright, what’s eating you?”

“I just remembered that I have to do my least favourite part of my job.” He dropped into a whisper. “A little heads up? It’s not the assassinating part.”

“You mean, dealing with the rest of your gang?”

“You know me so well. Explaining to them how we’ve got an information leak is going to be a treat.”

Dipper glanced out the window. The city blocks crawled past outside.

“It wasn’t your fault that your people did business with the Northwests,” he said. “I wouldn’t think they’d be cross with you over uncovering the company’s scheme. Quite the contrary actually.”

Bill gripped the leather loop like he was trying to wring its neck. “They can be cross with me for murdering three of a rival gang’s men without explicit orders.”

“Then you ought to explain that it wasn’t on purpose.”

“It doesn’t—“ Bill shook his head. “Never mind. Nuts to what my bosses think. Screw the lot of them!”

“They’re all wet,” Dipper agreed. “You’ll take back your gin, though, won’t you?”

“Pines, if right now you asked me to buy you the entire state of Illinois, I probably would.”

Dipper chuckled. “In that case, I better start making a list.”

 With a start, Dipper realized that he and Bill had drifted uncannily close to each other, so much so that their sides were practically touching and Bill’s face was barely a hand’s length away from his. This was especially noticeable in the empty streetcar.

The old couple had paused in their debate over Oreos to stare at the pair of them as if they had both suddenly caught fire.

“Oh, look,” said Dipper casually as he made unfortunate eye contact with the old woman. Her suspicious scowl started Dipper blushing. “This seems to be our stop.”

Bill frowned. “No it’s not.”  Then he noticed the old couple and their death glares, and he performed a turnaround worthy of the seediest politicians. “My, would you look at that? It is! We should get off right now.”

“Yes we should. Right now.”

They made their way to the front, giving the couple a wide berth, and the next time the car stopped they jumped off.

They still had several blocks to go, but when their feet hit the pavement, Bill broke out into peals of laughter. Dipper couldn’t help but join in. The way he figured, it was either that or cry.

+++

The laughter subsided by the time they reached Racine Street and Pines’ Fine Antiques.

“But you’ve never been to a baseball game?” Dipper asked.

Bill shrugged. “I’ve never had the time, never mind the money. Actually, I should rephrase that. I’ve never had the money to waste on watching a troop of men compete to see who can smack a ball across a field the farthest.”

“My Grunkle Stan’s got the tightest wallet you’ll ever see, and even he’s taken me and Mabel a few times.”

“If I need something to watch, the picture-shows are much cheaper. Much more engaging, too.”

“I’d never have guessed you to be a lover of cinema.”

“It speaks to me,” was all Bill had to say.

“If you say so.”  Dipper wondered if this was a pun. Everyone knew that picture-shows were silent.

He pushed open the door to the shop, the cheery chime of the bell a juxtaposition to the silent room beyond.

The front of the shop was empty. The clock ticked dutifully overhead, and that month’s edition of _Photoplay_ was turned over on the counter like a substitute cashier.

Bill looked around. “Where’s your sister?”

“Mabel?” Dipper called. He hopped behind the counter and looked up the stairs to their apartment. “Mabel? Where—“

A thump sounded from upstairs, promptly followed by a loud, “Oh, thank god!”

Mabel flew down the stairs, nearly knocking her brother to his knees with her hug.

“Dipper Pines,” she scolded. “Where in the world did you disappear to last night? I stayed up all night waiting for you, but you didn’t call or anything. You had me so worried, I almost called the police!”

“Shoot,” Dipper mumbled in between being suffocated. “I’m sorry, Mabel. I didn’t even think about that.”

Mabel let her twin breath. “I can worry about you, too, bro-ski. What was so important that you couldn’t even telephone me about it, huh? Why the sudden vanishing into thin air like it’s a thing to do?”

“That would be my fault,” Bill interjected. “Hey, Starshine.”

Mabel took notice of him for the first time, and her eyes narrowed. She pushed her brother away, holding him at arm’s length.

“Hold up,” she said, and Dipper swore that he could see the cogs turning in her head. “What’s he doing here? Were you two off doing something illegal?”

“You could say that,” Bill offered cryptically.

“Without thinking to invite me?”

“It was spur-of-the-moment,” Dipper said, thinking back to the tailing of the Northwest affiliate. “And then it got, uh—“

“Personal,” Bill finished, sidling over to stand closer to Dipper.

Mabel got the hint. “Oh. Jesus Christ.”

“You’re not going to report us to the authorities, are you?” asked Bill. “Because that won’t end well. For the authorities.”

“Please don’t shoot anyone over me,” Dipper said. He turned back to his sister. “Mabel?”

“Sorry,” she chirped nervously. “It’s only that, well, I feel like I should be celebrating or something. For the first time in my life, I’m the only sane person in the room. Give me a moment.” She fanned herself, smiling and giggling to show she wasn’t serious. “This is a new feeling for me.”

“You’re jake?”

She mustered up enough of her usual pizzazz to give a bouncing shrug. “I’m jake. Just so long as you don’t do anything too weird.”

This was a poor choice of words. Bill took it as a challenge.

“So, nothing like this?”

He planted a light peck on Dipper’s cheek, and Mabel went red like a cooked lobster. Dipper, to some degree, followed suit.

“House rules!” she squawked. “I’m setting house rules! First rule: no necking in the shop!”

“Aw,” Bill pouted. “That wasn’t even that bad, Sheba.”

“And I don’t need to know what’s worse.” She shot her brother an apologetic smile. “I mean, by all means, do whatever you want, just not in my general presence, okay?”

“Got it,” Dipper said, his shoulders sagging in relief.

Mabel pursed her lips, nodding slowly. “I’m just glad you’re both not hurt. You gave me one heck of a scare, that’s for sure.”

She backed up, beginning to climb the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Dipper asked.

“I’m going to get my coat,” Mabel said as if it were obvious. “You two are treating me to sodas as an apology, and then you’re going to explain like there’s no tomorrow.”

She disappeared up into the apartment.

“Well,” Bill mused. “She didn’t disown you.”

“She’s very progressive.”  Dipper searched for Bill’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “And you’re paying for the sodas.”

“Damn it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'd suggest not touching this chapter with your bare hands. They'll come away sticky from how sappy it is.)
> 
> I make my triumphant return! Thank you to everyone who waited patiently for me to get my shit together and left comments and kudos in my absence. I like to imagine that they were the blood sacrifices that summoned me back to the mortal plane. And the fanart! I'm still delirious over the fanart. Again, thanks. 
> 
> Note: I'm going to be putting my PS (postscript/positively stunned-at-how-amazing-y'all-are) at the end of the chapters so its less intrusive. To remove it entirely would be a gross injustice.


	11. Questions and Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People sure like talking a lot. 
> 
> (gsrh rh gsv hgzig lu dszg r orpv gl xzoo gsv 'sld wrkkvi hxivdh fk' yrg. r nzpv ml kilnrhvh sldvevi.)

Moving the crates out of the back room would have taken less than an hour had it not been for the constant parley back and forth. Bill had returned with the truck late morning—winter was creeping in and ‘late’ was synonymous with the crack of dawn—yet when noon had rolled around, barely any progress had been made.

 “I’ve had an idea,” announced Mabel, who was perched atop a steadily shrinking stack of boxes. She had a coat with a thick fur collar wound up around her face against the cold, yet her bare legs shone under her stockings.

“And what’s that?” asked Dipper, walking back into the room from his seventh visit to the truck parked outside. He wrung out his arms—they strained like wadded up pieces of cloth and felt just as flimsy. “That you’re finally going to help us?”

“Don’t bully the lady,” Bill scolded. “She’s just not strong enough. Better leave the heavy labour to the men, eh?” He held up his arm, flexing, and Dipper had to chuckle.

Mabel’s mouth dropped into an offended O. “Pardon me?” She launched off her perch, her heels clicking on the concrete floor, scooped up a crate and promptly carried it from the room.

Dipper gave Bill a look. “You’re diabolical.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

Mabel returned to the room muttering and dusting off her hands. “Not strong... Poppycock...” She gave them a smug smile and brightened again. “Anyways, look at all this space we have now. You could fit a whole plane in here.”

“Please tell me that isn’t you idea,” Dipper said.

Mabel tapped her chin, a smile twisting onto her face. “Now that you bring it up— Naw, it wasn’t an aeroplane.”

Bill mimed wiping his brow in relief.

Mabel snickered. “But think for a second: we have a huge, hidden room in the back of our shop. We already know that we can hide gin back here. We have all this space to do with as we wish—“

Dipper saw where his sister was headed. “Mabel, no.”

“Di-i-ip,” she whined. “It’d be absolutely perfect. You could handle all the business and math and boring stuff, and I could be the hostess. It’d be a dream, our own little speakeasy!”

Dipper held up a hand. “First off, no. Secondly, just because we’re up to our necks in risky, illegal business does not mean we need to drown in it. Where do you even start with a project like that? How’d you even keep it going? There’s—“

Mabel cut off her brother’s rambles before they could snowball into a rant. “Pssh, live a little. We’ve already got connections, or do you keep forgetting who you’re so stuck on?”

“Mabel,” Dipper warned.

“I seriously doubt he has,” Bill said with a smirk. “But he’s right, Shooting Star, and I can’t help you. This neighbourhood isn’t on Three Points’ turf, and I’ve done enough helping besides.”

“Aw what?” Mabel deflated. “Then who’s turf _are_ we on and where can I talk to the man in charge?”

Bill thought for a moment. “It’s either the Verplage Street or Hubbard Park gang, but it isn’t as if we section off our territories into neat little squares. Either way, right now isn’t the best time to be poking at them with business proposals.”

Mabel blew a strand of hair away from her face in defeat. “The entire world’s all wet.” She surveyed the dwindling pile of gin. “C’mon, we’re almost finished.”

Dipper’s arms complained, but he hauled another crate out of the back room.

Bill walked next to him. “She won’t let that go will—?”

“Hey, Capo!”

Both men tensed, and Bill peered around the truck, his face splitting into a scowl. “Oh, Jesus Christ. Excuse me a moment.”

He set his crate on the ground and jogged towards the main street.

Mabel poked her head into the alley. “What’s going on?”

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Dipper muttered.

Looking at where the side street emptied onto Racine, Dipper could see two men framed by the brick walls. He recognized them, too. They were the men who had accompanied Bill in first storming Pines’ Fine Antiques, the two lackeys. One of them favoured their left leg, and Dipper remembered that he was the one that had been shot.

Bill was staring them down, the trio jabbering back and forth in rapid-fire Italian interspersed with terse English.

Finally, Bill turned away and marched back towards Dipper. The two men followed, and Bill’s face was hard set in a glower.

Bill reached Dipper first. “They say they’re here to help,” he whispered as he passed, so quick Dipper nearly missed it. “They’ll ask you questions. We did a bout of business, nothing more.”

“Of course,” Dipper swallowed, and Bill ducked back into the room like the apathetic captain he played so well.

The men introduced themselves as Don and Michael, and they all shook hands as if they’d never met before.

Don, the one with the gammy leg, the one Dipper recalled had spat threats in his face, smiled broadly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” Dipper said, and it took all his willpower to hold a passive expression.

“So, the boss’ got you holding stock for us?” Michael asked. “He paying you well enough?”

“Well enough,” Dipper agreed.

“So why’s the deal off?” Don asked, leaning against the truck. “Did you get smart about him or did he get smart with you? The answer’s very important because I have five dollars riding on it.”

Dipper blanked. “The deals off because you don’t need the crates stored here anymore.”

“That’s five dollars, Mike. He don’t know for nothing.”

Michael rolled his eyes and pawed over a fiver.

Dipper crossed his arms. Though he was confused, he was also dead set on holding his own against the two gangsters. He didn’t plan on being lured in by their games. “You’re both here to help, are you not?”

Bill seemed to materialize behind them. “So they say. These two have never been much for honest work.”

“You’re one to talk,” quipped Michael, and Bill laughed, though Dipper could tell it wasn’t genuine. He’d gotten used to Bill’s genuine laughs.

There was a strange sort of tension in the air, like a rubber band being pulled in several directions at once, the stress shifting constantly. Dipper sat in the middle of the mess, waiting with clenched teeth for it to snap.

Bill packed another box into the truck. “I’ll be inside whenever you two decided to quit harassing my associate and make yourselves useful.”

“Charming, ain’t he?” said Don once Bill was gone.

“Very,” Dipper said, trying to sneak in an edge of sarcasm. “And you two work for him?”

“Under him,” Michael corrected. “And he works under someone, too. He’d have you believe he sits on the very top of the pyramid, but believe me that is far from the truth.”

As annoying and purposefully provocative as the twosome where, Dipper couldn’t help but be fascinated by their opinions on Bill. Dipper knew that one was apt to show different bits of oneself to different people, but the contrast between their version of Bill and his was staggering. He remembered what Bill had said about drawing lines and dividing himself into portions. A chill went down Dipper’s spine, but he didn’t know why.

“I get the impression you’re not all that fond of him?” Dipper asked, digging deeper, curious.

“High hat,” decided Don. “That’s the word for him. And he’s a bit of a fairy, though if you don’t know him well enough it’d be hard to tell.”

“It’s the way he obsesses over his dress,” Michael said.

Dipper struggled to hold a straight face. “I may have noticed some vaguely queer tendencies.”

Don nodded. “Sometimes I think the only reason his head isn’t on the floor and rolling is because he’s too good of a shot, and I’m sure he already knows, but he sure isn’t kept around for his sparkling personality. Of course, the charity cases don’t help matters either.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to insult you. Golden Boy’s got some weird thing for people down on their luck.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “He’ll pull strings, engineer things, makes up exchanges and sells them as deals. Just thought you ought to know that we had plenty of extra room in our storehouses is all.”

“You’re saying he made everything up to help me out?”

“We’re on the level.”

 Dipper frowned. “But Bill isn’t the type to do favours. He has this ‘give something get something’ ethos, doesn’t he?”

The gangsters exchanged glances. “If that’s the case, then what’s he getting from you?”

Dipper glanced back at the doorway to the back room. The glare of a harsh winter sun made it impossible to see through the gloom within.

He told the men, “I’m not sure.”

 

+++

 

That evening after dinner, Dipper descended the stairs to the shop.

Bill had left quickly with the truck once all the boxes had been sorted, so Dipper hadn’t had the opportunity to ask him anything, not that he had wanted to.

He was still stewing on the conversation he’d had with the two men, and his thoughts were like an over-stuffed closet: he’d go to fish on thing out and suddenly there’d be an avalanche on top of him. He knew better than to open his mouth.

Besides, what would Bill think if Dipper took the word of two mischievous and probably spiteful strangers at face value? At best he’d seem naive and stupid.

He decided to keep to himself, and in the time being go looking for answers to other questions. After all, now that the back room was free of any and all contraband, what was stopping him?

Dipper sat at the counter and dialled in a number into the telephone, the wheel whirring and clicking with each digit.

Grunkle Stan picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Hello, Grunkle Stan. It’s me, Dipper.”

Dipper could hear his great uncle’s smile through the receiver. “Kid! It’s been awhile since we talked. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten all about your old man.”

“That’d be a feat.” Small talk wasn’t Dipper’s strong suit, but he gave it a shot. “How have things been going with you?”

Dipper heard a snort from the other end. “Uneventful. I miss business ownership. I’ve half a mind to do regular checks at the shop to make sure you two are taking good care of her.”

“She’s—“ Dipper cleared his throat. “The shop’s doing fine, Grunkle Stan. And actually, I have a question to ask.”

“You’ve come seeking my wisdom, eh? You need knowledge that only your seasoned elders can provide?”

“Something like that.” Dipper fiddled with the phone cord. He recited the story he’d formulated over dinner. “A while ago, Mabel and I were cleaning out the closet—we were thinking of moving any of the broken merchandise back there until it could be repaired or thrown out—but then, uh, we found a door behind one of the shelves?”

There was a pause long enough for Dipper to wonder whether the call had disconnected. “Hello?”

“’M still here,” Stan muttered.

“Are you going to tell me why there’s a hidden door in the shop?”

“I knew I should have boarded it over.” A sigh.“Kid, you wouldn’t judge an old man for mistakes he made in his youth, would you?”

“I suppose not,” said Dipper cautiously.

“You know that the antiques shop isn’t exactly a long-standing family business. I got the building from a friend, and while he was a good friend, he wasn’t necessarily a good person, you know? Would it surprise you to know I didn’t run with the best of folks?”

“Not particularly.”

Stan chuckled. “Anyways, back then Chicago was all gambling rings and numbers games, none of this fancy bootlegging business making gangsters into celebrities and all that. If there’s one thing I was good at—and I still am. I’m not that old yet—it was skewing the odds in my favour, cheating suckers. It was a living.”

“Alright,” Dipper murmured to show he was still following.

“So, I do that for a while, and I get noticed. I make friends, which is good when, er— when it’s just you against the world, yeah? One of them gave me the shop for cheap, and the hidden room used to be used for meetings and the like.”

“You used the back room for illegal gang business.”

“Don’t go getting any ideas,” Stan chided. “Things fell apart after a while, after, uh, well—“ Stan lost his train of thought for a moment, and Dipper waited patiently, biting back the questions on the tip of his tongue. “We had a falling out and I lost some good friends, some good people, burned a lot of bridges. I kept the shop, though.”

Dipper gave a nervous laugh. “There’s always a silver lining.”

“I tell yah, never get involved with the gangs,” Stan warned. “That satisfy your curiosity?”

“And how,” Dipper said, though the normally enthusiastic phrase was delivered flat.

Stan noticed. “You feeling okay there?”

 “I’m fine.”

“If you say so. Oh, and one more thing?”

“Yes?”

“Take good care of your sister. I know she can be a bit headstrong and pushy at times, but siblings ought to stick together.”

Once the call ended, Dipper was suddenly aware of how quiet the shop was. Feeling very alone, he crept up the stairs and back into the apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that wasn't fluff! You all deserve more than that for Christmas--the Great Flood of Comments last chapter was flippin' amazing and i cry everi tim--but this chapter had to be all plot seriousness and other such dramatic devices. (boo! let's boo the narrative!)
> 
> I promise, next chapter will be fluffy like whipped butter and sugar. Happy Assorted Holidays, lovelies!


	12. Two Lonesome People in the Whole Wide World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PINE TREE HOLY FUCK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song in this chapter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9b03fMQwnRY *cough*ignorethetimelineinconsistencies*cough*

Rainy days were for relaxing, or so Dipper thought. The rain was coming down in sheets, the streets abandoned of all sane life, and he had curled up with a book and his musings in a corner of the couch.

Mabel was stranded at work, the rain apparently making it impossible for her to find a taxi cab, though she hadn’t sounded particularly panicked over the phone. Quite the opposite, the Den sounded like it was in the middle of a rapturous party.

And normally, Dipper would have been fine alone.

He was fifty pages deep into The Secret Garden when something like a volley of hail thundered on the shop door.

He rushed downstairs to behold Bill waving frantically at him from behind the window, the hair plastered to his face likening him to a soaked kitten. His face was splotchy and he was mouthing something frantically, fogging the glass.

Dipper opened the door and Bill flung himself inside.

Instantly, Dipper went into panic-mode, shutting the door tight behind him. “What’s going on? What happened? Are you hurt?”

Bill doubled over gasping. His clothes were soaked and clung to his skin. Rivulets of water spooled down his face, his coat and hat having done little to shield him from the downpour.

“Oh, my god,” he managed. “That was close.”

Dipper’s heart jumped to his throat and he instantly backed away from the window. “Is someone after you? Bill, tell me.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, straightening up. “It’s raining. I’m only in danger of drowning standing up.”

Dipper watched as a puddle formed at Bill’s feet. “Nothing’s wrong? No one’s chasing you?”

“No, I’m pretty sure I lost them a few blocks back.”

“Come again?”

Bill cracked a smile. “I kid, Pines. Why are you strung so tight?”

“I’m not,” Dipper said, offering a light laugh as proof. “God, I should slap you for scaring me like that. Or, on second thought, how about you step back outside instead? That seems fair.”

“Not in a million years. I’d sooner take that slap.”

Dipper eyed the small lake that Bill’s entrance had created on the floor of the shop. “You should dry off before you catch a cold. I’m assuming that was your plan, right? To burst in here and force me to take care of your sorry self?”

“Astute as always, but let me give you a hug first.”

Dipper took a step back. “Bill, no, you’re all wet. You’re literally—“

His protests were muffled by the collar of Bill’s sopping coat. He tried to squirm away, but found that Bill’s ice cold hands had him in a death grip, their chests squished together like some pathetic automobile accident. Dipper had to admit that a car wreck was as good an analogy as any for their situation. He resigned to his damp fate and hugged Bill back. Maybe a little too tight.

“You’re an asshole and I hate you,” he mumbled.

“Well, you’re an asshole and I love you. Clearly one of us needs an attitude adjustment.”

+++

The two of them forsake the concept of furniture entirely, deciding instead to lay on their backs in the middle of the living room and stare at the ceiling.

Outside, rain clattered on the roof, the occasional whoosh of wind rattling the window pane.

Bill had borrowed dry clothes from the back of Dipper’s closet—though the shirt still stuck to him—and his hair splayed out in strands on the carpet.

One way or another, their hands had found each other. Bill’s thumb traced Dipper’s palm, and despite having kissed the man not three days previous, Dipper found it to be the most intimate feeling in the world.

“You know what would be fun?” Bill asked.

“And so begins the beginning of the end,” Dipper chuckled.

Bill pouted. “You slay me. I only had the idea that once the rain lets up, we ought to go out somewhere together.”

“Together, but not explicitly.”

“Of course,” Bill agreed, but then he sighed. “But, there are places to go if we want to be explicit. I know of a few and—“

“Bill...“

“Sorry, I know. I just, I just want to be seen with you. I want to show you off.”

“I don’t.” Dipper gripped Bill’s hand, and the massaging stopped.  “I mean, I want to be with you, but not like that. I’ve been to one of those clubs before, and the— the people—“ He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘people like us’. “They dress up like girls with makeup and skirts, and then other men come just to make fun of them like they’re there for their entertainment.”

“Not always.”

“But I’m not like that. I don’t want people to think I’m like that.”

“You’re not. You’re very manly.”

Dipper snorted. “I’d take a good lot of work to prove that point.”

 “You’re more of a man than me,” Bill argued. “Or have you spent a night flaunting about a club in nothing but a dress and stockings?”

Dipper sat up suddenly, propping himself on his elbows. “Have _you_?”

“Back when I had less of an image to worry about and a poorer tolerance for drink, yes. Not that it interests you, naturally.”

The thought of Bill in a dress made Dipper’s mind stall out like an engine in the cold. “N-naturally.”

“Point being that I want to take you out dancing. I want to waste an entire night twisting ankles and spilling drinks and making you laugh until your face turns red. That doesn’t sound fun to you?”

“It does, Bill, and it isn’t your fault, but I don’t like standing out. Whenever I stand out, it’s in a bad way.”

“I’m telling you, you wouldn’t stand out nearly as much as you think. For someone so young, you sure have an old-fashioned, backwards way of thinking.”

Dipper huffed. “Is it too much that I simply don’t want to associate with all that?”

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you _are_ ‘all that.”

“I’m not,” Dipper protested, his words tumbling out. “I’m not some freak and I’m not a pansy. I’m certainly not a homosexual, I just love you and—“ He buried his head in his hands. “Crap.”

Bill reached over to tousle Dipper’s hair, laughing.

“Well, if there’s anyone who knows about keeping up an image it’s me, so I’ll let it drop. You sure can be bull-headed, though, Pines.” He threw in a smile to give the comment an endearing sense and rolled over onto his stomach to brush a kiss across Dipper’s cheek. “Stubborn sapling.”

“Shut it,” Dipper mumbled, even as he went to return Bill’s kiss, missing just left of the mark.

Bill rolled his eyes. “See, there you go again,” he teased, leaning in.

Dipper lifted his head up, anticipating another kiss, but Bill slipped past him so that his mouth rested next to Dipper’s ear.

Softer than the morning mist, he whispered, “Gay.”

“Oh, my god!” Dipper flung himself away, his face consumed in figurative flame. “Bill, you—“

But his words met deaf ears as Bill was too busy rolling about the floor, a madman utterly pleased with his work, consumed by a fit of cackles.

“Pines, your face! I can’t breathe! Oh, I’m going to die—I can’t breathe!”

Dipper tried desperately to twist his expression into some semblance of anger or annoyance or scorn, but the goofy grin he received instead conveyed none of these.

He crossed his arms. “Look at what you’ve done to me. I can’t even be mad at you.” He said this, though in a way he was.

Bill sobered instantly, jumping to his feet. “Great. That’s perfect.”

“What?” Dipper asked. “Why’s that perfect? What are you up to?”

Walking backwards, Bill held out his hands, fingers acting as a frame as he squinted at Dipper still sprawled on the carpet.

 “Don’t move an inch,” he said. “Oh, yes, perfect.”

“Bill...”

A radio sat in the corner of the room. Mabel would sometimes use it to pipe in perky tunes or to follow radio dramas, but now Bill was at the dials, fiddling away.

He turned the knobs until the static filtered out and the last notes of a jazzy number could be heard. The up-tempo music faded away. There was a pause, and then a slower song began, something with piano and violin and a voice singing about the man in the moon.

Bill strode over to Dipper, hand extended. “If you won’t give me the pleasure of taking you out dancing, then I suppose your living room is as good a place as any.”

“Oh no, I can’t. I’ve told you all this already.”

“Slow dancing is much easier than a Ziegfeld act, I promise.”

Dipper rolled his eyes, but it was mostly out of obligation. “I don’t think anything having to do with you is easy.”

“Is that an invitation to prove you wrong? Do me the honour.”

Dipper, chuckling, let Bill haul him to his feet, and the two of them stood toe to toe in the middle of the room.

The music and sound of the rain outside battled for supremacy, but Dipper’s erratic heart had them both beat. So close, so close again, and he had to remind himself to breathe.

 He wondered if it would always be like this, if Bill would always have this power over him, if his touch would always bring with it this faint electricity.

Bill took Dipper’s left hand, but their arms bumped together as each tried to place their hands on the other’s waist.

“Sorry,” Dipper yelped, withdrawing.

Bill caught him, pressing Dipper’s hand back onto his own hip, and a thrill prickled over Dipper’s skin at the proximity.

“How’s about you lead?” he offered.

His shirt was damp and cool to the touch.

Dipper gulped. “You’ll regret suggesting that, you know.”

“Humour me,” Bill said, his hand coming to rest ever so gently at Dipper’s shoulder.

One deep breath, two, and Dipper took a minute step forward. Bill matched it with a step backwards. They circled the room, pacing in time with the crackling melody of piano and strings, Bill humming to the lyrics and Dipper leading the dance in slow, calculated steps as if he were reading off a checklist.

Back, back, left, forward—don’t crush his feet god damn it—forward, left...

Bill didn’t seem to mind, but Dipper didn’t dare meet his eyes to know for sure.

Outside, the winds had abated, the storm receding. Rain still trickled through the gutters, leaks tapping out rhythms like icicles during spring melt, and squares of weary, dull light tiled the carpet.

And then, as tended to happen around Bill, Dipper got a little braver.

With a swing of momentum, he transformed their next turn into a pivot, swivelling on the ball of his foot and holding Bill—who gasped aloud— at the small of his back so that he wouldn’t be left behind.

They nearly crashed into the couch, but Bill laughed. “Holy mother! Do that again!”

“I don’t know if I can,” Dipper said, stopping just short of a stuttering apology but not daring to let Bill go. “It was just an accident.”

Bill gave him a look that was part leer and part smile. “Look, Pines. I’m not what you’d call a man of God, but pocket watches don’t just fall into place out of the sky. If that was an accident, then the world needs more accidents like you.”

There were several adjectives that could have been used to describe Dipper’s face in that moment, and all of them were synonyms for red. Red and very, very happy.

“God,” he muttered. “Well, you’re a proper mess yourself.”

“Damn right.”

Dipper should have been expecting the kiss, but it still caught him unawares. It was soft and forgiving, and he could feel Bill smiling. Their hands dropped so that Bill could cradle Dipper’s neck, and Dipper found himself hugging Bill’s waist as they eased over to lean against the wall.

After a few supple exchanges, Bill murmured, “Hey, Pine Tree?”

“Mmm, yeah?”

Bill lifted his head. “Look.”

Dipper opened his eyes to see Bill gesturing with his chin at the window. White flurries were falling with a vengeance, and there was already a respectable drift dusting the edges of the glass.

“First snow,” Bill whispered. 

“Would you look at that.”

Dipper had always been hesitant to call anything magical—after all, it was such a childish concept, bringing to mind fairy tales or wicked witches or dusty old superstitions no longer fit for their modern world—but watching the world turn over into a new season, Bill’s lips still lingering on his, Dipper felt like he was living a scene straight out of a story book.

“We should go bask in that,” Bill said. “I feel like basking.”

Bill’s stupid ideas were proven contagious when mere moments later Dipper was hoisting his bedroom window wide open. Winds spilled in, bringing with them the powder and scattering loose papers about the room.

Dipper peeked out, reassuring himself that the fire escape hadn’t suddenly disappeared in the night, but then he ducked back in, second thoughts getting the better of him. The metal stapled to the side of the building looked awfully flimsy.

Bill, who was wrapped in one of Mabel’s winter coats, brushed past Dipper and eased his way onto the rusted platform. There was a collective sigh of relief when it held.

Bill took Dipper’s hand to steady him as he followed.

“It’s slippery,” Bill warned, and he made his voice overly sultry. “Careful, my love.”

Dipper cringed. “Oh, please. Not that.”

“My lady?”

“That’s worse. That’s so much worse it pains me inside when you say it.”

Bill snickered. “I’ll stick to Pine Tree.”

The rooftop was completely white, and they left a trail of footprints through the thin crust as they walked the length. The building was only two stories tall and the surrounding apartments formed a sort of valley, though that did little to shelter from the snow.

Dipper tilted his head skyward and was met with a kaleidoscope of flakes. He turned to see that Bill was already speckled, the white cutting a sharp contrast with his hair.

Bill smiled. “Beautiful, huh?”

Frosted windows from across the way lit the street, the pavement below deserted, the snow just as vicious—if a tad more whimsical—than the deluge from earlier. To Dipper, the snow seemed set to blind him, blotting like the burnt holes in filmstrip through his vision.

“And she seems hushed to me / As hushed as though / Her heart were a hunter’s fire / Smothered in snow.”

“What was that?” Bill walked to where Dipper stood surveying the street below.

Dipper took a deep breath, fearing that he might choke on a snowflake like how one might inhale a fly. “Bill,” he began.  “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” Bill said, hands deep in the pockets of his borrowed coat. “What’s eating you?”

“The reason you made that deal with me, in the park a month ago, it wasn’t because you needed my help, was it? You didn’t need the backroom as desperately as you said.”

There was a weighted silence wherein Dipper’s words hung, each letter a cinderblock, over their heads.

Bill sighed, and his voice wavered. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually. You’re too clever.”

“You didn’t do it just so you could get closer to me, did you?” Dipper asked, laughing nervously. “Was it all just an excuse?”

Another pause, the drop in conversation filled by the swirling of snow and the bite of the wind.

“Would it flatter you if I said yes?”

 Dipper shivered and blamed it on the cold. “I’d still love you.”

“Then yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Poem used in this chapter is Snowfall by Sara Teasdale)
> 
> Thanks once again to everyone for the kudos and the wonderful comments! (not to pick favourites, but, uh, comment #147's got me thinking about some things...)
> 
> And about that fluff I promised? Turns out that I'm actually incapable of writing pure fluff, try as I might, and I'd apologize, but there's no fooling you guys. You all know that fic writers have no souls and are thus incapable of remorse.
> 
> So, here's to the first update of a new year! (my personal new years resolution is to invade and conquer the ngcs tag on tumblr) Things are only going to go downhill from here! Cheers, lovelies!


	13. Phosphates and Property Damage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to consider this the beginning of a second arc.

Paranoia. That was all it was. It was fear without reason, worry without founding, and yet when Dipper glanced the headlines on the newsstand his heart leapt to his throat.

_Suspects Arrested in Smuggling Case_ declared the _Chicago Daily Tribune_. It was followed by a grainy photo of four men gathered around a docked boat, and Dipper couldn’t help but squint to pick out familiar features, a cocky smile or bold stance or piercing eyes.

He sighed. There was nothing, of course. Bill wasn’t even a smuggler—he’d been quick to take offence to the term, and had educated Dipper on the various different positions within Chicago’s underground, citing himself as more of a hitman than anything.

Standing on the street with Mabel perusing the magazines next to him, Dipper let out a sigh.

Mabel looked up from her copy of _Vanity Fair_. “Penny for your thoughts, broski?”

Dipper took to thumbing through the papers with great interest. “Just tired and sore.”

“That’s your fault for staying up all of last night,” Mabel quipped.

“The shop needed to be reorganized,” Dipper defended. “We’ve been doing a piss poor job of running it so far, and I needed to feel like I was doing something productive. I could practically feel the spirit of Grunkle Stan breathing down my neck.”

Mabel giggled. “Slow down there. Grunkle Stan isn’t dead. I should know because he called me yesterday while you were out.”

“Oh? And what’d he say?”

“Something about how being in a gang is like doing cocaine and that we should stay away.”

Dipper opened his mouth, but Mabel was faster. “And no, I’m not mad at you for not telling me, only jealous that you got up the nerve to ask first. Stan’s creepy past is Stan’s creepy business.”

“Good,” Dipper said, relieved. “But cocaine?”

“I think the point was that they’re both hard to quit and that he knew first hand. On both accounts.”

“Swell.”

Dipper jumped when the news vendor started barking at them. “Either of you thinking of buying anything?”

The vendor was a broad man, dead set on gnashing his wad of gum like an enraged bull, and Dipper squeaked out a “Sorry!” before selecting a paper at random and rushing to pay.

Mabel elbowed him as they walked away down the street. “Yet another disaster averted by your first-class diplomatic skills.”

“Do shut up,” Dipper huffed.

They stopped on the corner of 18th and Canal. It wasn’t much further until the Chicago River, with its dozen bridges stitching across the channel, streetcars rattling along, and, beyond the water, the framed windows of Chinatown.

Automobiles were parked in orderly lines down Canal. Crusted snow was pressed into cracks in the pavement. Men leaned in doorways for a morning smoke, eyeing the passing traffic, and storekeepers were performing their opening rituals for the day. It seemed the kind of street that was equally likely to host a parade as it was a shootout, but the breaking day brought with it the dull current of everyday life, sweeping people past by the skirts of their coats and the responsibilities on their shoulders.

Dipper felt obliged to follow along.

 “Now, where’s this friend you’re supposed to be meeting?” he asked Mabel.

Both the twins had scheduled busy days. Dipper was set to meet Bill for lunch—because god forbid they have a normal, pleasant afternoon for once—but he’d agreed to accompany Mabel when she met up with a girl friend.

Mabel checked her wristwatch, the ribbon of which was starting to fray. “She’ll be along. Isn’t it just like a Northwest to be late?”

Dipper was caught mid-yawn, and he stared at his sister, mouth comically agape. “Northwest?!”

Mabel smiled, having had had a similar reaction several days ago in the soda shop, only it had involved more of a spit-take and several glaring patrons.

“Northwest?” Mabel had sputtered. “The Northwest Company?”

They had been sat at the counter of the pharmacy, Dipper, Mabel, and Bill, each with a soda in front of them. The pharmacy was a homely place—carved wood cabinets housed brand-name medicines, ceiling fans hung stationary overhead, and the radio in the corner that squawked out soap commercials between songs. It was a place for the neighbourhood to congregate on a legal basis, though Dipper could scarcely be considered a regular.

The space played host to several other conversations as well, but Mabel’s outburst turned heads. Even the soda jerk—who had been discreetly filling in a crossword behind the counter—looked over.

 “Well,” Bill said, mumbling around his straw, “Now we know who the German spy _isn’t_.”

His comment went ignored.

“You know of the Northwests?” Dipper asked Mabel, who was wiping her mouth. She made a point not to discriminate between sodas, and with each visit rotated flavours methodically. Presently, it was cherry fizz that ran down her chin and into her lap.

“The Northwest Company?” she gasped. “The rum-runners from Quebec? Those are Pacifica’s folks!”

“Friend of yours?” Bill asked, taking a long drink.

Mabel nodded. “Though the girl never told me she was in the smuggling business.”

Bill rolled his straw between his fingers, no doubt hankering for something stronger than an orange phosphate. “’Course they wouldn’t. If she’s their daughter, chances are she don’t know for nothing herself. ‘S safer that way.”

“And you never told me Pacifica was a Northwest,” Dipper cut in.

“Since when do you inquire about my girl friends?” Mabel pointed out. “But they’re in league with the gang that attacked you and betrayed Three Points?”

“Double-crossed,” Bill agreed. “And while I’m not suggesting a triple-cross, good things do tend to come in threes.”

“If I’d just suffered through what you two have, I’d be looking for a little rest.”

“You don’t own me, Starshine, and there’s no rest for the wicked.” Bill was chewing at his straw now, looking thoughtful. “Say, if you’re as good a friend as you say with this Northwest doll, couldn’t you do some negotiating for us? This is all purely hypothetical, of course, but say you could convince her to dig up some information. ‘Oughtn’t to be hard.”

“Paz would never go behind her father’s back.”

“It all depends on who gets to you first on a matter,” Bill assured. “First impressions get ingrained in people’s heads, and trust and loyalty come easily after that. You wouldn’t be asking much of her anyways.”

 “No, I’m telling you straight: Pacifica would never cross her father.” A bite had crept into Mabel’s tone, and she leaned her elbows on the counter. “And why are you so sure she isn’t in with them already? Don’t tell me you think a woman can’t keep pace with the rum-runners. I know Paz, and believe you me there was never a sharper wit.”

Dipper couldn’t suppress an eye-roll. “That’s not what he’s getting at, Mabes.”

“Why does any parent keep things from their kids?” Bill asked. “To protect ‘em, of course. Excellent piece of leverage when you get right down to it.”

Mabel sipped at her soda, and Dipper could tell she was thinking about Stan. “It’s an endearing sentiment, but I’m not so sure Paz’s folks think like that,” she mumbled.

Bill shrugged. “ _Comme ci comme ça._ There are always other ways of getting information. Pine Tree’s seen my china cabinet.”

“And how,” Dipper said. “But don’t worry. We’re not going to pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to, right, Bill?”

Bill muttered something non-committal.

Dipper drummed his fingers on the counter. “Right?”

“Right as rain,” Bill conceded.

“No.” Mabel straightened on her stool. “I’ll help you; I’ll figure something out. I can be very clever when I try.”

Unfortunately, Mabel’s idea of clever had the side-effect of scaring the living daylights out of her brother. Dragging him outside in the bleary morning, arranging a meeting under false-pretenses, and having him come face to face with the heiress to the company that had made multiple attempts on his life? Dipper wouldn’t have described any of this as particularly smart.

Standing on the corner of the street, he felt suddenly exposed.

“You couldn’t have told me earlier?” he demanded of Mabel. “What makes you think I have any want to meet with a Northwest?”

“I did tell you,” Mabel said. “You just weren’t listening.”

“You knew I wasn’t listening,” Dipper accused. “You know better than anyone that I can scarcely hear anything before a cup of coffee.”

“Don’t get sore,” Mabel chided. “It isn’t as if Pacifica’s dangerous. If the Northwests are the best lead you have on how to get to the bottom of this mystery gang, don’t you think it’d be good to talk to one? Do a little subtle gumshoeing?”

“Shouldn’t the Big Shot himself be present then? Or is that too much to excuse?”

“Yeah. My brother, that’ll pass, but my brother and his questionable escort? Especially one that throws around euphemisms like ‘china cabinet’?”

Dipper nearly had a coughing fit. “That’s not what you think it is.”

“Mhmm,” Mabel hummed. “Whatever you say, Dip.”

She startled at a tap on her shoulder, and Dipper flinched when someone standing behind them cleared their throat.

Mabel whirled around, and a smile broke out on her face. “Paz!” Like a bear-trap snapping shut, she engulfed her friend in a hug. “Are here I was worried you’d found better things to waste your time on than me!”

“And miss out on your sparkling personality?” Pacifica asked from somewhere inside Mabel’s embrace. “Where else am I going to find a friend that greets me with asphyxiation?”

What Dipper heard didn’t seem like much of a friendship to him, but when the two girls broke apart, they were laughing.

Even post-Mabel-bear-hug, Pacifica looked like she had been ripped right off the cover of a magazine: hair like corn silk draped to her back, a fur collar hid her neck, and her skirt was cut just above the knees. She wore an ice-diamond in each ear and a quizzical look when she noticed Dipper standing by.

“Your brother?” she guessed.

Dipper froze. “Uh, how’d you—“

“You’re twins,” Pacifica reminded him. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“Oh. Well, it’s true. As you can see.” Dipper had been thrust into this situation completely out of the blue, and found himself lost as to how to respond. He figured he should act natural, though for him that was easier said than done. At least there wasn’t a gun levelled at his face this time.

Pacifica giggled, though Dipper could tell it was one born of pity. “Mabel’s told me a lot about you.” She inspected him, and held out her hand. “Though I imagined you to be taller. I’m Pacifica.”

“Dipper.” Dipper tried to make the handshake last as long as possible, wondering what in God’s name Mabel expected him to do.

“Some weather this is,” he tried, managing to keep his stutters to a minimum.

Pacifica glanced skywards. “It’s about what I’ve come to expect from Chicago. Back home, I’d be wading through waist-high snowdrifts by now.”

“And where’s home for you? North?”

“Quebec,” Pacifica agreed. “Or Montreal. I travel a lot since my dad’s got offices just about everywhere on the east coast. It makes it hard to spend time with my favourite peasant, but it’s a life.”

“Aw,” Mabel gushed. “I’m your favourite. I feel so special.”

“Your dad—“ Dipper had to stop and clear his throat. “Your dad has an office here in Chicago then?”

Pacifica gave him a look. “Obviously.”

“Oh,” Dipper gulped. Now seemed like an opportune time to retreat. “Anyways—“ He gave an awkward laugh and began to step-shuffle away. “I shouldn’t waste any more of your time. That is, if you two don’t get to see each other much, which you don’t. Apparently. Uh, I’ll be going.”

He turned and marched off, feeling the two girls’ stares bore into his back. He could imagine Mabel holding back a laughing fit.

Through the murmur of the thin crowd, Dipper heard Pacifica ask, “Does your brother always get so goofy over blondes?”

And Mabel busted out laughing.

+++

An hour and a half, that’s how long Dipper waited at the restaurant. An hour and a half, and Bill hadn’t shown so much as a hair.

Dipper’d had to shoo the waiter away five times—each time reassuring them that his second party would arrive any minute, and each time the look he was given grew increasingly sympathetic.

He drank the two glasses of water, watching crowds outside the window pass.

No doubt the other customers thought some flimsy dame had stood him up, but Dipper feared it to be much worse.

Finally, he could stand it no longer.

He left a tip to thank the waiter for their patience, fled the restaurant, and hopped on a streetcar, retracing his steps best as he could to Bill’s raggedy apartment. He wished the car were empty. He needed space to pace back and forth.

Bill moved around constantly, always busy, and Dipper knew that the apartment was a long shot, but where else was he to go looking? Bill wasn’t the type to be found; he was the type that found you.

Dipper figured that if the apartment was a bust, he’d check the Publishing Den, then wander aimlessly from there, his nerves and paranoia eating him from the inside.

Nothing had happened, obviously. Bill was just busy, or he’d simply forgotten about their date, but then why did Dipper feel like the bottom of his stomach had fallen out?

Thousands of horrible scenarios flew through his head. He imaged headlines in the papers, eulogies in black and white.

After shoving his way off the streetcar, Dipper found a gap in the brick wall outside the apartment: the key was gone. He took this as a good sign. The fact that the brick lay discarded—Dipper could only guess that it had been thrown—a few feet down the street, this he took as a bad sign.

Up the stairs and down the hall, door 205 was left open.

Dipper wished he’d brought his pistol. Bill had shown him how to conceal it under his jacket, but it couldn’t have been polite to pack heat to a lunch date. Then again, Dipper could picture Bill doing exactly that. On the regular.

He gathered his courage and pressed on past the door.

The floor creaked; the apartment making all the sorts of sounds an apartment should, but nothing to suggest that Dipper was anything but alone.

Then, somewhere inside, something slammed into the wall.

Dipper jumped a good two feet. In that moment, he was thankful he wasn’t armed. He probably would have shot himself in panic.

In the next room, someone was grumbling, and Dipper raised his voice, now pitched an octave higher than he would have liked it. “Bill?”

When no one answered, Dipper began edging backwards out the door.

“Pines?”

Dipper could have wept with relief. “Oh, thank god. Bill, what’s—“

“What are you doing here?” Bill’s voice demanded.

Dipper frowned and started for the living room. “You never showed up at the restaurant. I got worried, and so I came looking for you.”

“Congratulations.” The words were tight, like Bill was out of breath. “You’ve found me. A job well done. Merits for all. Now, if you wouldn’t mind leaving me well enough alone…”

“But—“

“Dipper Pines!” Bill growled, and Dipper hesitated in his stride. “I’m warning you: you take one more step and I will make good on my past threats. I swear to god I’ll personally—“

Dipper could imagine a time when Bill’s words would have terrified him, but now they sounded ridiculous.

Dipper crossed his arms and marched into the living room. “—hunt me down and fill my mouth full of lead?” He finished, then he stopped. “Oh.”

The first thing he noticed were the holes in the wall. Wallpaper was mashed into craters in the plaster, white dust speckling the floor and drifting through the air.

Bill’s knuckles were covered in the stuff. The outer layer of his suit was tossed into the corner—the room being void of furniture to hang it on—and the collar of his shirt was undone down to two buttons yet still soaked in sweat.

He glared at Dipper. “Look at you, calling my bluff.”

Dipper considered the situation: his boyfriend panting in frustration, the possibility of extreme violence, the property damage. More than anything though, he needed to know what was going on.

He gestured at the craterous wall. “Mind if I join you?”

Bill sighed. “By all means.”

Dipper walked over, as casual as he could manage, squared his stance, and threw a left jab. A fist-sized hole appeared in the plaster. His entire hand ached in protest, but he bit back the complaints, instead adding a second dent to match the first.

Bill joined him, and the walls shook—Dipper could only imagine what the neighbors must be thinking.

“So,” Dipper ventured in between punches. “What’s got you so wound up?”

“People thinking they’re better than me.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“I’m on thin ice with Three Points.” Bill’s fist disappeared into the wall with a crunch. He yanked it free, scattering chips of drywall. “Not surprisingly, they didn’t approve of the stunt I pulled with the Northwests and their unknown allies.”

“By which you mean, fighting for your life?”

“Mafia families balance on a system of delicate truces.” Bill explained. “We’re like bees. If you don’t bother us, chances are we won’t bother you, but if someone were to kick the hornet’s nest, then the hornets have every right to go bump the poor sucker off. In light of recent events, you can see why my people aren’t entirely pleased with me.”

“Only the Northwests came at you first,” Dipper noted. “Or do forces outside of the gangs not count for your odd little honour system?”

“The links can’t be proven. Other than my word, but that’s not good for much.”

“They don’t believe you?”

“Would you?” Bill asked. “Strange as it may seem, I don’t go around assassinating people for no good reason. That’s idiotic, but—“ He reeled back, laying into the wall and letting out a proper scream. “I swear they’re just asking for me to walk in and shoot the lot of them! But that’s a crap idea! Tell me that’s a crap idea!”

“It’s a crap idea to pointlessly slaughter people.”

“Thank you.”

Dipper gave the wall another pound, but he was tiring and his knuckles throbbed. Bill needed to buy an actual punching bag.

“So, the Northwests are a shield,” Dipper mused. “They’re being used as a puppet body by your rival gang.”

“Not that it matters,” Bill spat. “What’s done is done, and my superiors are pinning me with the blame for the coming war.”

“There’s going to be a gang war?” Dipper sputtered. “You’re certain?”

“Oh, it’ll be great,” Bill enthused, though his tone was so laden with sarcasm it could have anchored a cargo ship. “The turf alliances are strung so far up and down the east and west sides that the whole of Chicago will get roped into it.”

“Sounds like your idea of a good time.”

“It would be, if it were on my terms, but now I’m pegged as the fallguy if anything screwy happens to Three Points. They want me to work my way back into their good graces, something that involves a lot of ‘yes sir’ and ‘no sir’, and frankly that just doesn’t appeal to me. What’s more, I—“ Bill eyed the wall like he might give it one more swing, but lowered his fists instead. “I don’t want you getting tangled up in my business.”

Dipper huffed. “If ever I did, I would do so knowing I could take care of myself, thank you very much. Though why would your gang want to effectively disown you? If there’s going to be a gang war, aren’t you their most valuable asset?”

Bill threw his hands in the air. “It’s bullshit!”

“Yeah, I see that!” Dipper stopped, taking a deep breath. “Whoa, alright. Let’s slow down here, and are you, uh, are we done with the wall-punching?”

Bill thought for a moment. “I’d say so.”

“Good,” Dipper sighed. “I think my knuckles are bleeding.”

He walked to the window and, with some difficulty, pried it open. As the fresh air wafted in, he set about pacing the floor.

“So, let me get this straight: you’ve been alienated by your gang.”

“Check.”

“There’s going to be a turf war that’ll tear up half of Chicago.”

“Check.”

“And our next move is to find out who attacked us and get revenge.”

“Ch— Wait, say that again?”

Dipper turned around, planting his hands on his hips. “Are you telling me you don’t want to get revenge for nearly dying back in that warehouse? Or for getting conked out at the restaurant?”

Bill’s face lit up. “Pine Tree! It must be Christmas! Of course I want to plot vengeance with my sweetheart.”

Dipper raised an eyebrow. “Don’t make me regret this. I’m only saying that because you were being reasonable and agreed to no genocide.”

Bill’s arms draped over Dipper’s shoulders, and Dipper found himself being pulled into a loose hug.

“And also because you’re secretly a tiny ball of righteous fury?” Bill asked.

Dipper smiled at the odd compliment. “Maybe. And what about Three Points?”

“Oh, they can think I’m still sweet on them all they want, but I’ve gotten tired of their high-hat egos. They’ll go down in history as the gang that turned the Golden Boy into a loose cannon. This Mafioso’s going rogue!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First: I'm so, so sorry for not updating in a month without a proper excuse--besides the fact that life catches you unawares sometimes, but that's not good enough for me! So yeah, apologies. 
> 
> Second: Thank you all so much for the kudos and comments. You're all so lovely! *does that cheesy little heart-hands symbol* 
> 
> And Third: Fun fact! After WW1 the US government sold off hundreds of Jenny planes for extremely cheap, spurring the creation of flying circuses/barnstorming troupes. They were called barnstormers because they'd fly into farmer's fields and negotiate to use the barn/fields as a stage for their aerial shows. Seriously, twentieth-century aviation is really cool. Google it.
> 
> (Also... have you noticed something about the fic stats? There's a reason these chapters are numbered honey; you just haven't thought of it yet.)


	14. Breaking, Entering, and Other Part-Time Hobbies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Bill is me because we're both angry, bitter, never shut up, and steal things on compulsion.

At first, Dipper thought that waiting for nightfall would be hard. Four hours, three sandwiches, and one continuous, angry rant later, and the previous statement still stood.

“And you have to think that if any of them put in the slightest bit more effort, my talents wouldn’t be so impressive. Do you want to know why I’m so good at my job?”

“Why’s that?”

“Because I care. I work hard, and I’m dedicated. I’m passionate.”

“About killing folks.”

“Precisely.”

They’d been sitting at the cafe for what seemed like ages, having established something of a camp at one of the tables. Just down the road from the Chicago Loop—Chicago’s business district—the cafe played the stage for the most casual stakeout Dipper had ever been a part of. Not that he’d had a hand in a record amount of stakeouts, mind you.

And from the moment they’d sat down, through five coffees and three sandwiches, Bill hadn’t once shut his mouth. In the literal sense. Apparently, once you got him riled up, his manners went out the window.

Dipper liked to think they’d just gotten comfortable around each other.

“I’m so sick of the lot of them,” Bill said, leaning back in his chair. “Remind me again why I don’t just take this—“ He reached under the table and lifted up the crowbar that was resting next to his leg.

“Bill, put the crowbar away.”

Bill complied without breaking stride in his tirade. “—and bash their heads in? Because I’m beginning to think it’s a much more efficient way to deal with my problems.”

Dipper sighed, looking around to check if anyone else had noticed they’d snuck a fairly conspicuous weapon into the restaurant. No one had.

“We’re not trying to be efficient, we’re trying to be subtle. Why else do you think we’re waiting until sundown to break into the Northwests’ offices?”

As it so happened, what little information Dipper had managed to glean from his conversation with Pacifica had come in handy after all. The Northwests owned an office in the business district, and raiding it was apt to produce as good a lead as any. If either of them could find something, anything, that showed the Northwests were being paid off by a rival gang, they’d finally be able to take more direct action against whoever had attacked them in the warehouse.

“I offered to stage our raid earlier,” Bill said.

“In brazen sunlight,” Dipper countered. “Where anyone could see us.”

Bill blew a raspberry. “Horse feathers. It’s more fun that way, more of a challenge.”

“If we’re going to break into a building, we’re going to do it at night like any other self-respecting criminal.”

“Self-respecting criminal,” Bill laughed. “Now there’s a concept. Let me tell you...”And off he went again.

Dipper hunkered down over the table, careful not to rest his elbows in any of the coffee spills or roast beef shreds. He’d been doing his best to be patient and listen—he was more of a listener anyways—and he got the idea that Bill hadn’t had someone to rant to in a long while.

The fact that he still had to run with Three Points gave him plenty of verbal ammunition.

Back in Bill’s apartment, they’d both agreed that it would have been stupid for Bill to make an enemy out of his old gang. He’d been ready to throw down his hat on the spot, but Dipper had talked him down. Once they’d both cooled off, it was like their tempos synched and they started thinking in tandem. They clicked.

It was decided that Bill would play along for now, let Three Points think what they wanted of him, while also keeping his established connections intact. In the end, however, he alone knew where his loyalties lied.

Strange as it was, he’d seemed almost relieved that he wouldn’t be cutting ties completely. Of course, that didn’t stop him from complaining.

“And don’t even get me started on talking about shooting practice with these people.”

Dipper chuckled, outlining stains in the table with his finger. “Don’t worry, I won’t, but have you ever thought about taking up a hobby?”

“Very funny,” Bill said. “But no, I’ve been reading. I’ll have you know that I’ve been perusing some of those old poems you love so much.”

“Oh?”

“By which I mean I stole the books from your room when you weren’t looking, but they aren’t half bad. I like the morbid ones, very realistic. There was this pessimistic one about leaves that—“

Just then, the waitress came over to their table. “Excuse me? Sirs? The restaurant, uh, it’s closing now.”

Dipper looked up to see that all the other tables were empty. The busboy who was sweeping the floor was watching them from across the room. The clock on the far wall read near midnight.

“Oops,” Bill said, standing up and taking the crowbar with him. “Show time.”

Dipper stepped between him and the waitress, trying to conceal the weapon Bill was making no attempt to hide. “Bill? How about you pay the nice lady.”

The bell above the door jingled in answer as Bill fled the scene.

“Damn it.” Dipper gave the waitress a “don’t worry, he’ll get what’s coming to him” smile and paid.

+++

Standing on the deserted sidewalk in front of the Northwests’s Chicago offices, Bill rubbed his arm where Dipper had punched him.

“Sheesh, okay!” He handed over a ten dollar bill. “You know, Pines, there are better ways of getting what you want other than violence.”

“Hey, practice what you preach.”

“I will when it so conveniences me. Oh, and I almost forgot.”

Besides the crowbar, Bill had brought along a bag, one that he now set on the ground and went about riffling through.

As he did so, Dipper took the time to size up the challenge before them.

The Northwests’ Chicago office sat on the Loop in the middle of City Central, occupied three floors plated on the outside in brownstone, and was rather intimidating now that Dipper came face to face with it in the dark. What’s more, there didn’t seem to be any obvious points of entrance—Bill had made it clear that taking the front entrance would smite their operation where it stood—and Dipper couldn’t spot any fire escapes. Though they could break the laws of the city, the laws of physics still prevented them from walking up walls.

Thankfully, at this unholy hour, there wasn’t a soul awake to spot them no matter what they did. The city was ghost-quiet.

Dipper’s concentration was jarred by the streetcar that rattled by above them. All around the Loop, streetcar tracks were suspended over the pavement. Running parallel to second floor windows, they were held up by steel girders and metal lattices, and the way they creaked was thoroughly unnerving.

“You’re obviously new to the art of what the French call _le casser-et-entrer,_ ” Bill said, still entrenched in his bag. What he could have packed inside, Dipper was afraid to find out. “So I’ll teach you a few things. One, while most people will tell you that you need to look as inconspicuous as possible, most people are also idiots.”

“Bill, I thought we’d agreed to be as subtle about this as possible.”

“This is as subtle as I can be, Pines. Here, catch.”

Dipper fumbled to catch the pair of welder’s goggles Bill had tossed his way.

“See,” Bill continued. “The trick isn’t to be generic and unrecognizable, it’s to be recognizable as anyone other than yourself.”

Dipper eyed the goggles. “Where did you even get these?”

Bill ignored him, instead pulling a beige trench coat—one that looked to be about three sizes too big—from the bag and fluffing it out like a flag. He slipped it on, and it almost swallowed him whole.

“Oh no,” Dipper said. “That is the most impractical thing I’ve ever seen.”

Bill tied the belt, and the coat sagged like chiton. “In case you’ve forgotten, this isn’t just a revenge plot. We’re here to dispense justice against those who have wronged us. We’re vigilantes!”

Dipper sighed his defeat. “Here, at least let me—“ He rolled Bill’s sleeves and tucked the skirt of the coat so he wouldn’t trip. “We don’t need any accidents.”

“If you so insist,” Bill said, donning his own pair of goggles and urging Dipper to do the same. Gloves came next, then hats that pulled low over their faces.

Dipper laughed at Bill’s stove top hat. “Now you look like Jack the Ripper.”

“Who’s to say I’m not good ol’ Jack? He’s quite the inspiration besides.”

 “Only you.” Dipper shook his head. “Well, now that we look like a pair of proper fools, I think I’ve got an idea as to how to sneak in.”

Bill surveyed the brownstone building. “How do you figure?”

Another streetcar clattered along the tracks above them just as Dipper pointed skywards. “You any good at climbing?”

Hauling themselves onto the tracks was a piece of cake. Even with Bill clutching the crowbar, it was like the supports were made for easy access, and Dipper had past experience from a habit of climbing out his bedroom window as a child to play in the woods past dark.

 The streetcar tracks themselves were thin, with only an inch or two of space between the rails and the two-storey drop. The Northwest building, on the other hand, had a ledge that wrapped around the front, decorated with plaster sconces. The gap between the two was a good meter and a half across, and the fall... Dipper paled just looking at it.

“I wager five dollars I can make that jump,” Bill said, twirling the crowbar.

“More like you wager you life,” Dipper coughed. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Do you need the statistics, Egghead? Yeah, I’m sure.”

Bill took a running start and jumped. His coat flapped when he leapt from the tracks, billowing out behind him like a pair of wings, like he was some kind of crazy, thrift store angel. In the next instant, his face ploughed into the brick and he groaned.

“Jesus Christ,” Dipper muttered. “Are you okay?”

Bill took a moment to straighten his hat. “Right as rain, thanks.” He inched along the ledge, and at the first window he came to, he started prying at it with the crowbar.

He stopped suddenly, reaching up to wipe his face. “Oops, I’d like to retract my previous statement. My nose is bleeding.”

“How in the world did you manage to keep a reputation that depended on you never getting hurt?”

“Because I’m a professional,” Bill chided. “If not a professional vigilante, then a professional something-or-other. Aha!”

The window popped open with a crack, and Bill set about tumbling his way inside. His head reappeared a moment later and, “Romeo, O Romeo. Whyfore art thou such a sap, O Romeo?”

Dipper snorted. “But soft, what jerk through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Bill is the idiot sun.”

“Damn straight,” Bill said. “Alright, your turn.”

Dipper was paper-thin, the slightest wind making him sway.

Even as his legs shook, he took a step back and launched himself off the tracks. There was a split second where he dangled in the air, with the window drawing towards him, where his stomach turned as he thought he might not make it and he imagined the sidewalk rushing up to meet him.

And then it did.

“Dipper!” Bill screeched, leaning as far as he could out the window, but he couldn’t reach.

Dipper caught himself on the ledge by no more than his fingertips, and he swore he heard bones click. He gasped when his chest collided with the wall, and he almost let go. His shoes scuffed the stone as he scrambled frantically to gain purchase.

“Hold on, I’ve got you,” Bill promised. He edged out the window, clasping Dipper’s wrist in his shaking hand and pulling.

Dipper’s fingers were on fire. First, his arms reached above the ledge, then his chest, then he helped climb the rest of the way to his feet.

He was lightheaded as he squeezed through the window. Finding himself back on solid ground, he took in a long breath. “Oh, thank god.”

Then Bill shoved him into a bookcase.

“Hey, what are you—?” Dipper stumbled back.

“Don’t do that.” Bill’s eyes were stormy. “Don’t do that to me ever again.”

Dipper frowned, still wobbly. “Bill, are you—?”

“Don’t make me worry about you like that! I don’t like having to— to— you know!” Bill’s tongue seemed to have tied itself, turning on him.

 “You think nearly breaking both my legs was on my to-do list for the day?” Dipper asked. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“That doesn’t make it any better,” Bill muttered. “In fact, I’m pretty sure that makes it worse. It takes a lot to scare me, but damn it Pines, if you don’t find it easy.”

“Bill,” Dipper snapped, holding his gaze level. “I’m sorry, but you have to trust that I can take care of myself. It was an accident.”

Bill closed the window, shutting out the drone of the city, and the office fell quiet. “No, it’s not your fault,” he said, almost to himself. He planted a distracted kiss on Dipper’s cheek as he walked past. “I’m glad you’re okay. Let’s get back to business.”

They’d landed in one of the smaller offices. It was outfitted for professionalism with only a few personal touches like picture frames and scribbled reminders. The door didn’t have a lock on it, though it squeaked on its hinges, making Dipper flinch. When the pair peeked out into the hall—Bill hefting the crowbar over his shoulder like a vagabond with his bindle—they saw it was empty, empty and dark.

Bill snuck out first, tracing the wall. Dipper followed at a distance.

They found the records room—a clean, cramped space with a single light bulb on a wire to illuminate it—without much trouble and set about searching, each taking a filing cabinet on opposite sides of the room. After a good hour of searching, Dipper was convinced he’d find himself a paper cut before he found any useful information.

Tax forms, shipping and productions records, files full of employee’s records and timetables all blurred past as fast as he could flip the pages. It was so late that on several occasions what he was looking for completely slipped his mind, and he had to backtrack several pages to make sure he didn’t miss anything.

The tedium passed in silence.

Finally, Bill stood. “Nothing. They don’t have anything about the Canadian shipments in here. There’s nothing here!”

“Maybe they wouldn’t keep them in here,” Dipper thought aloud. “If these records are incriminating in any way, they’d keep them somewhere more secure. They have no reason to make things easy for us.”

The stack of paper Bill was holding was tossed to the floor, sheets flooding everywhere. “Such a waste of time,” he growled. “Let’s see if we can’t find the main office.”

He strode out of the records room, crowbar in hand. He knocked the light bulb on his way out, making shadows swing violently about the room.

Dipper considered the scattered papers before hurrying after him.

“What happened to subtly?” he hissed.

“Forget subtly,” Bill barked. “How about progress?”

The main office didn’t have a sign to label it, but the ornate door was enough of a clue-in. Bill’s crowbar made short work of the lock.

Even in the dark, the office inside gleamed with polish. Lacquered wood and glass cabinets stood guard on either side of the doors, and the Canadian flag, with the Union Jack in its corner, hung over a desk fashioned like a slab. A set of crystal bottles with delicate necks sat shamelessly on a shelf in the back, their contents shining like amber jewels.

Bill flipped on the light and attacked the desk drawers.

“Bill,” Dipper said. “Take it slow.”

A flurry of papers exploded over Bill’s head as he searched, a handful of whatever the desk had contained thrown to the wind. “Why bother being careful? Why can’t revenge start here? The Northwests are guilty of plenty.”

“Because you’re not thinking ahead,” Dipper reasoned. “We’re here on a mission, remember? We need to find the records—“

“We _are_ finding the records, but I’ve had a hell of a stressful week, and god knows you’re stressed at all hours no matter the situation, so don’t you think we deserve a little levity?”

Another blizzard erupted as Bill dug deeper into the desk’s files.

“If we get arrested for this,” Dipper grumbled.

“See, if this was another gang we were dealing with, then we’ve got something of a code of honour: we leave the bull out of all our affairs unless it’s to pay them off. The Northwests though, I have a feeling they wouldn’t want an investigation near them anyways, not if they have ties to a gang. Heck, they could still be traced back to Three Points.”

Dipper knelt at the desk and started the search anew. At first, he tried to set things back where he’d found them, but seeing as Bill was determined to wreak havoc no matter what he did, he gave up after a record minute and joined in the two-man ticker tape parade.

A half hour passed, and they ended up sat on the desk, the crystal bottle of Canadian whiskey nestled between them. Bill had torn the red flag from the wall, repurposed it as a shawl, and draped it over his shoulders.

“Okay, so no records to be found,” Dipper said, arms crossed.

Bill took a swig. “Nope.”

“And we searched everywhere.”

Another swig. “Yup.”

“Any ideas?”

Bill thought for a moment, wiping his mouth on the rolled sleeve of his trench coat. “Actually, yes.”

“Is it because it’s late and you’re drunk and stupid?”

“Yes, that’s exactly why.” Bill jumped from the desk, posing with the bottle. “So, my idea is police records, records kept by the cops of arrests and illegal goings on and whatnot. But—“ Bill held up a finger for emphasis. “—you know how this city is corrupt to the bone? How an officer carries a secret paycheck like he carries his pistol? Well, none of the records are accurate. Gangs and companies and the like bribe secretaries to erase bits from the ledger.”

Dipper leaned back on the desk. It was past two am, his eyes screamed at him to close them, and he felt like he was about to pass out and roll onto the floor. All the same, he knew nonsense when he heard it.

“Wouldn’t that make the police records useless to us, if they’ve all been tampered with?”

“Ah, but here’s the best part,” Bill said. “The bull ain’t as stupid as we give them credit for. I happen to know for a fact that the chief of police keeps his own private set of records, just in case he needs to blackmail someone. The ledgers there are as white as snow.”

Dipper sighed, a weary sigh. “And how do you propose we rob the chief of police’s records?”

“Well, the last time I did it—“

“The last time?”

“—I snatched his keys and got in that way. Unfortunately, now he’s got a bit of a paranoia thing going on—you two would get on well. Ever since I jumped him, he hardly goes anywhere alone, and often travels with at least one other officer. I can’t imagine that the mounting tensions between the gangs will have done wonders to ease his conscious either.”

“But, if we can’t get his keys, how do you propose we gain access to his records? Bill, we’re not robbing the chief of police—at least not by breaking down his door—I’ve had enough of robberies to last a lifetime, thank you.”

“It’s only a robbery if you take something, Pines,” Bill joked. “This one gets a pass on a technicality.”

“You’re not thinking of leaving the flag behind, are you?”

“What kind of brash assumption is this, Pine Tree?” Bill held a hand to his chest and another to his mouth in mock offense. “Do you take me for some sort of kleptomaniac, that I feel the need to take trophies on compulsion?” He looked down at the flag. “You’re right, of course, but how else do you think we’re going to get in? The chief never lets himself alone.”

Dipper drummed his fingers against the desk. “There’s always more than one option, and there’s no need to be so drastic. Who knows? Maybe there’s a time when we can catch him unawares.”

“Pines,” Bill said. “I’m the professional here, and doing it any other way would be a waste of time.”

“Barging in there, into a police building or wherever, is an unnecessary risk. It isn’t as if we have a time limit.”

“Well, not strictly, but—“ Bill waved his hands about, as if trying to grasp a coherent argument out of thin air. Finally, he said, “Right, fine. Here’s the deal: Three Points is riding my ass right now, and I’m going to be away for a few days on business. If, in that time, you can come up with a plan to catch the chief of police alone and rob him, then we go with your plan. If time runs out, then we go it my way. Do we have a deal?”

Dipper didn’t have to think about it. He held out his hand. “Deal.”

Bill took his hand, but instead of shaking, he pulled Dipper in for a light kiss. “Deal.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaah! I'm so sorry. It's been a month between updates again! I swear I'm better than this. 
> 
> Anyways, thanks for having patience with me, and thanks for the kudos, comments, and kind messages in the meantime. Oh, and thanks to ShadowAcurus for being my beta. (finally got a beta, get that squared away)
> 
> As an aside, this chapter was originally going to be a hell of a lot crazier than it ended up being, mostly because I'm stockpiling the crazy for an upcoming chapter. Oooh, mysterious! 
> 
> Ciao, lovelies! I wish you all luck in whatever endeavors you decide to pursue until next we meet!


	15. The Local Gumshoe Gal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd tell you to skip this chapter because it's mostly plot, but you CAN'T skip this chapter BECAUSE IT'S MOSTLY PLOT. 
> 
> Ain't that a trick?

Chicago was bigger without Bill.    

Dipper was fully aware that a city couldn’t fluctuate in size—at least not within the span of a day—but now that Bill was away, everything seemed to have grown. The buildings loomed taller. The crowds were more mob-like. Distances that were rendered short with friendly conversation now stretched on into ages of silent trudging.

At the same time, Dipper felt he could breathe easier. There wasn’t that electric sense of action in the air anymore, that constant, nagging drive to do things faster, better, to be more impulsive, to be up to standard, to please.

With but a slight change in company, Dipper was able to return to the life he’d led before being entangled in Bill’s—but he knew that wasn’t quite true.

Now, if he were to walk down Racine Street, the very street he’d spent a number of his summers exploring, the dark alleys would jump out at him. He’d pick out the seedier individuals from the crowd, pigeon-holing them according to what Bill had told him. Pickpockets and mafia soldiers. Corrupt officers and flimsy women. Buyers, sellers, and suckers alike.

Now that he was left alone, Dipper felt as if he would have been able to slow down and relax. Unfortunately, he was working with a deadline.

Three days, that’s what he’d been given. Three days allotted to find a way to rob the chief of police in peace, and Dipper would be damned if he was going to see himself fail. Failure meant doing the robbery Bill’s way, which meant he’d be arrested for sure, or possibly shot, and Dipper couldn’t bear to imagine either outcome, however realistic. Really, he’d agreed to the contest for Bill’s own good.

And so on a crisp Monday morning, with the sun straining through the thick clouds and shin-high snow trenches lining the roads, Dipper set off for downtown.

Mabel had peeked downstairs as he opened the door. She was still in her nightclothes and shivered from the draft.

“Where’s the fire, bro-ski?”

Dipper wrapped a scarf thrice around his neck. “No fire, just a walk.”

“It’s a bit early for that, don’tcha think?”

“It’s no more of an early morning for me than it is a late night every night for you and your black-market job.”

Mabel scoffed. “You make it sound like I’m the one actually doing the bootlegging. I’m just the server. I’m giving the people what they want.”

“You’re sounding more like Bill by the day,” Dipper quipped.

Mabel laughed, retreating back upstairs and away from the cold. “Gosh, then you should hear yourself sometimes!”

+++

The first day was spent combating heavy snow. A storm rolled in with the new dawn and the streets were coated in blistering white, shop windows edged in frost. Such trivial things as weather barely fazed Chicagoans though, and the city chugged along like the machine it was, Dipper grateful not to be left the lone suspect on the buried street.

He learned only two things that day: the chief of police arrived to work early and left late.

The heavy-set man would shuffle past the stone block archway at dawn, tip his hat to those smoking in the chill, and wouldn’t re-emerge until dusk, hoping into a taxi and disappearing.

The next day passed with much the same results, and Dipper wrung his hands at the chief’s insistence at being inaccessible. God knew that the last thing Dipper wanted to do was enter the police headquarters after him, and so he was left outside to pace and mutter and stew.

He wandered around the building while he waited for the chief to show his face again. Though there were fire escapes as well as adjoining apartments and offices, it would be impossible to scale them without being spotted, and Dipper was happy to have an excuse to stick to the sidewalk. The headquarters was one hornet’s nest he had no desire to kick. That night at the Northwests’ hadn’t exactly whet his appetite for breaking and entering.

Still, on the third day, he was panicking. Bill was due back any day now, and Dipper could almost sense the disaster that was set to follow. He could hear the bees buzzing.

Why had he even assumed there was a time to catch the chief alone? Bill’s dramatic methods were looking more and more absolute with every second that ticked past.

Then Dipper happened upon a stroke of luck.

A little past noon—just as Dipper was about to flip a coin as to whether he’d pass out first from anxiety or hypothermia—he spotted his mark leaving in a group of officers.

They were breaking for lunch, and Dipper’s heart leapt. Finally, an opportunity to snoop, a chance to pick up some useful information. It didn’t even matter that the chief had surrounded himself with his coworkers—Dipper wasn’t doing anything illegal. Yet.

The chief’s head stuck up above the rest, which did wonders for Dipper’s clumsy tailing methods. A sea of dark suits and hats didn’t make for easy stalking.

The group of officers chattered as they went, some in uniform, others bundled up, and Dipper followed them at a distance, watching their navy hats bob along the top of the crowds.

He was mulling in front of a sweets shop, waiting for the officers to cross the street, when a sudden voice addressed him from behind.

“Dipper Pines, I’ll be damned.”

Dipper startled and stumbled around to behold one Pacifica Northwest. Today she was swathed in a shawl of mink, a rope of pearls at her throat and a look of all-business on her face.

“Well, this certainly saves me the trouble of hunting you down,” she said. “Though from what I’ve heard, you don’t stray too far from your shop on a good day.”

“Uh, hello,” Dipper stuttered. The whiplash of being torn from one guilty situation straight into another made his skin prickle.

The look Pacifica was giving him, it was a knowing look. It was one Mabel would give him when she caught him red-handed in the act, like when he’d cheated her out of her candy money as a kid. Pacifica’s glare threatened a cold sweat.

Dipper stuttered for small-talk, thinking back to the mess he’d let Bill leave in the Northwest’s downtown offices.

Just as Bill had predicted, the Northwests hadn’t let the papers get anywhere near the affair, but Pacifica, their daughter, their heiress, had to know. The question now was of exactly how much she knew.

Dipper tried for a smile, making a painfully obvious effort to sneak a peek as to where the police chief had made off to. He was nowhere in sight, and Dipper had to keep himself from sobbing in frustration.

“An unfortunate turn of weather, isn’t it?” he sighed.

“You used that one last time,” Pacifica said, though her icy stare alleviated somewhat. “And I’m not here to see you flap your gums.”

“Then what are—“

“I couldn’t help but notice the particular fondness you seem to have for Mr. Halesburg.”

“Who?” Dipper asked, genuinely confused.

Pacifica huffed, the pearls bouncing with her shoulders. “The chief of police. Tall, creepy moustache, creepier hands. From what I’ve gathered over the past little while, you’re following him about—badly, mind you, and in a rather suspicious manner.”

Before Dipper could go to defend himself, to no doubt rattle off the mother of all stilted and pitiful excuses, Pacifica held up a hand.

“I’ve given my escort the slip in order to follow you, but he always finds me eventually, and if I don’t let him then father gets cross. Thus time is freedom. Let’s agree not to waste each other’s.”

Dipper swallowed and nodded. “I swear I’m not doing anything dodgy.”

“Like hell you aren’t, but see? I don’t really care, and I can help you.”

A motorcar rushed by, flinging up a shower of dirty slush. Pacifica skittered away like a startled bird and clutched the ends of her coat lest they be soiled, Dipper following her so that they both hugged the storefront.

Dipper turned back to her. “How do you suppose that?”

 “Don’t take me for some Dumb Dora,” Pacifica sniffed. “I know more about this city than the people running it—you catch a lot of gossip when you keep an ear out for it. At a social, no one thinks to hold their tongue around the demure and complacent Northwest daughter, so if you need dirt on the chief of police, then I’m your gal.”

The way Pacifica was talking, Dipper thought she ought to join the US Army. They could always use more spies.

“And I assume you’d want compensation for you help?” he asked.

“Not the lame egghead your sister sells you out to be, eh?” Pacifica smiled. “As of late, my father’s been itching to see me married—and don’t fret, this isn’t that kind of proposal. Marriage just isn’t in fashion, and I don’t feel like getting cuffed to anyone yet, but he won’t see reason. Come December, he’s going to be holding a Christmas party at our family home, and I need to find a fella for the occasion, one that neither wants me for my body nor my money. Thankfully, you don’t want me at all.”

Dipper scanned the rows of chocolates in the sweet shop’s window display. “What’s makes you so sure of that?”

“Cause you’re scared of me,” Pacifica said matter of fact, pouring innocent, girlish charm into her words.

Dipper was pegged. “Well, I can’t tell you you’re wrong, though it isn’t very ladylike to blackmail someone into a date.”

“See?” Pacifica said, gesturing to Dipper like how a mother might scold a naughty child. “Completely unmarriageable.”

Dipper had to laugh. His three days were nearly up, and here came along a little miracle to solve all of his problems. Spending an evening on the arm of this temptress in disguise, in the home of the people who’d attacked him, who he’d attacked back, it wasn’t exactly his idea of a good time, but what choice did he have? And it wasn’t as if the date would mean anything.

His time was up.

 “It would just be the one party?” he clarified. “And you’ll tell me everything you know about the chief of police?”

“The interesting parts,” Pacifica agreed. “Are you a man of your word?”

“Of course.”

For just a moment, Dipper considered the possibility of this being a trap. Pacifica could very well sell him out to the police or to her family.

They shook—Dipper seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.

Pacifica picked at her gloves before she spoke, almost as if she were checking to make sure Dipper hadn’t tainted them. He did his best not to take offense.

She began, “While dear Mr. Halesburg does possess a wealth of dark secrets, I don’t have the luxury of time to recite them all to you. What is it exactly that you need?”

Dipper fidgeted, rubbing his hands together. “This may sound strange, but—“

Pacifica cut him off. “Rule number one for our non-date: don’t patronize me. I don’t know why you’re stalking members of the Chicago police force, but I promise you it’s nothing worse than what I get up to on Saturday nights.”

Very suddenly, Dipper realized why he preferred the company of men.

“I need to know about his habits,” he explained, trying to give away as little as possible. “Where he might go, what he might do, when he might spend time alone.” His voice pitched at the end, turning the statement into a slanted question.

“Oh, is that all?” Pacifica giggled. “Well, do I ever have a treat for you. As it just so happens—actually, it’s Tuesday, isn’t it?”

Dipper nodded slowly to give the illusion that he was following.

“Perfect. He’ll leave work again today at around four-thirty—and gosh, I always find it so funny that he does this sort of thing on a Tuesday of all days. Men, you know? Anyways, follow him, and I promise that whatever you need, you’ll find.” With that, she pecked him on the cheek and went sauntering off down the street.

“What—“ Dipper stammered. “That’s barely anything!”

“So sue me!” Pacifica called over her shoulder. “I have the money!”

The next three hours of Dipper’s life were spent pondering why everyone in it had to be so damn frustrating.

+++

Of course, Pacifica had told the truth.

It was four-thirty on the dot when Mr. Halesburg emerged from police headquarters. He adopted a brisk pace, obviously with a goal in mind, and Dipper mimicked his stride.

Unlike his previous stalking—way back whenever with Porky as the victim and Bill by Dipper’s side—Dipper could stroll behind casually as the chief bustled his way south. Mr. Halesburg didn’t seem worried in the slightest. This must have been routine for him.

Dipper was focused on never letting his man slip from sight, and as such he lost track of what was going on around him and of exactly where he was going. His surroundings were a blur, his vision tunnelling on his target.

Several jaunty turns down alleyways led him to bumping shoulders with a young woman, jolting him from his trance. She smiled at him as she slid past. “Watch yourself, handsome.”

Dipper smiled apologetically and turned back to his task, all at once on edge. Her neckline had been impeccably low.

He rounded one last corner and the narrow walk opened onto an intersection. It was a seedy neighbourhood, the smell of piss and trouble both frozen in the chilled air. Broken glass and crusted snow crunched under his heel.

Across the way, Mr. Halesburg was scurrying up the steps of a plaster-faced building. The walls flaked and the shutters were drawn, but it was the sign nailed above the door that turned Dipper’s stomach.

And he knew immediately that he had no intention of following the man inside.

Bill was going to win after all, and Dipper was going to let him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always for the all kudos, comments, and adorable pictures of your dogs! As we speak, I am devising a plan to kidnap him and make him mine; he is just that cute.
> 
> Thanks aside, if any of you are wondering why I updated at such an ungodly hour, well, you can blame my beta/baeta for that. (Yes, I'm using The Word, Shadow. This is your punishment.) He has the best ideas, am I right? We wanted to see which of you guys have the worst sleeping habits... 
> 
> But, if you're reading this super late at night, please sleep immediately! Right now! This includes if you're staying up to binge-read months after this chapter was posted. I love you! Don't do that to yourself! Sleep!
> 
> (Aw shoot! Now I can't tease that craziness I've been promising without contradicting myself... Now I can't tell you guys that it's going to be next chapter that it's going to totally rock your socks off. Darn... but, I mean, if you /do/ want to stay up... I did post that other Billdip fic a while ago... I can't stop you from reading that....)
> 
> Ciao, lovelies!


	16. Champagne Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stripper AU eat your heart out.
> 
> (that said, warnings for prostitution and all the unfortunate truths that come with it.)

“Illegal, unfaithful sex? On a Tuesday?!”

The vaulted, cathedral-like ceilings of Union Station carried the echo perfectly, bouncing over the heads of  those crowded on the train platforms below.

Dipper was torn between clamping a hand over Bill’s gaping mouth, slapping him, or responding reasonably to avoid making a scene. It was a shame that he happened to be the reasonable sort—the latter option was nowhere near as satisfying as the formers. Bill had been back in Chicago for no less than five whole seconds, and already Dipper could hear the broken shards of his peace and quiet tinkling musically to the floor.

Oh well. Since when did his life ever have the right to be easy?

Thankfully, everyone else disembarking the train seemed otherwise occupied, greeting loved ones or hauling luggage. No one paid them mind.

He gave Bill’s shoulder a flick. “I went through a lot of pain to get that information, and the least you could do is keep it quiet.”

“But a Tuesday?” Bill repeated, as if that was the most scandalous thing about it. “If I were the chief of police, sneaking off to have commercial sex, I’d at least do it on a Thursday! Thursdays are much more respectable weekdays.”

“Jesus Christ.” Dipper shook his head as they walked from the platform and down the stairs. Their strides matched, each falling in step with the other as soon as they reunited. “Did you dent your head since last I saw you?”

“Oh, it wasn’t _my_ head getting dented in.”

“Naturally,” Dipper muttered. “Do I want to ask what you did on your business trip?”

“Just stay away from the front page of the New York Times for a few days and you’ll be dandy,” Bill said, grinning. He knew full well that Dipper’s curiosity would permit him to do no such thing. He continued, “In comparison to other excursions, this was like a summer holiday. Satisfying work, Pines, even with the Three Points bastards breathing down my neck.”

The word satisfying was said with such relish that Dipper wondered if, while he had been appreciating the calm that came with their separation, Bill had been delighting in his half a week of freedom. Dipper couldn’t help but feel as if he tied Bill down.

Then again, letting Bill do whatever he wanted always seemed to come with a minimum cost of four casualties, so Dipper figured a leash might not be the worst idea.

They stepped outside. The sun was blinding, every snowdrift in sight glaring a violent white.

They were barely out of earshot of the train station when Bill asked, “So, when are we gonna jump the man? This Tuesday? Next Tuesday?”

Dipper tensed, fiddling with the hem of his jacket. Just thinking about the brothel, about what went on behind its doors, made his toes curl in disgust. The night before, he’d been conflicted about what to do with his discovery, and he’d considered keeping it from Bill entirely. But if Bill went and did something stupid instead, Dipper would have never forgiven himself. He’d overcome his discomforts to keep Bill safe and in check—it wasn’t even a question.

Even so, he asked, “Does there have to be a ‘we’ about it?”

Bill turned, and there was something so hurt about his expression that Dipper regretted the question immediately.

“I thought we were doing this together,” Bill said. “This was your idea, Pines. Aren’t you going to help me see it through?”

“Of course,” Dipper said, waving the thought away. “I was just— No, forget it. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Bill asked, suddenly concerned. “I need to be confident in you about this. I need to know you’re on my team.”

“What other team is there to be on?”

Bill paused, then shrugged it away. “It’s a turn of phrase. But you’re with me on this?”

“Of course,” Dipper promised. Had something happened in New York to make Bill waver, or had it always been like this, and he’d only forgotten?

Bill brightened. “In that case, this Tuesday it is. I know you’ve already thought this situation to death, so I’ll let you give your ideas for a plan first before I tell you how you’re wrong.”

“How gracious of you,” Dipper said.

They stopped to rest under the awning of a drugstore. When Bill set his bag down, something metal clattered against the pavement. Dipper didn’t need to ask. His imagination told him all he needed to know about what was inside.

He rubbed his eyes, thinking. “Well, a brothel won’t close its doors to anyone, would it? I wouldn’t know.”

“Generally, no. Business is business.”

“Right, and I suppose we’d just catch the chief as he enters or exits?”

Bill laughed, that I’m-cleverer-than-you-laugh. “And jump him when he has the best opportunity to run off? When he’s the most aware? I thought you were the thoughtful and careful one here.”

“That’s only because you’re careless and thoughtless in comparison. And you’re suggesting we rob him in the act, when he’s— he’s—“ Dipper stalled out.

“Aw no,” Bill sighed. “Pine Tree’s sensitive.”

Dipper gathered himself, courage, nerve and all. “No, you’re right. That’s the smart way. Anything else you’ve thought of?”

“As it so happens, yes,” Bill said. “See, one man walks into a brothel and it’s business as usual, but two men walk in together—“

“I thought you said we were doing this as a team,” Dipper interrupted.

“We are,” Bill snapped. “And let me finish. The way it is, two men will raise a lot of eyebrows, but it doesn’t necessarily have to be two men.”

“You’ve lost me.”

+++

It was Tuesday, and Bill was shrugging off his coat a turn and twenty paces from the brothel. Dipper, meanwhile, was inspecting a brick wall, tracing the mortar lines, appreciating the texture, drinking in the... brickyness. 

“I appreciate the courtesy,” Bill said. “But you’ve kissed me at least seventeen times now, so there’s no real reason to be a gentleman. Afraid you won’t like what you see?”

Actually, Dipper was afraid of the exact opposite. He gave a woeful sigh to show just how ill at ease he was and turned around.

Bill’s dress was cut just above the knees. Clear crystal beads circled his neck, a trickle of them dropping to his stomach where the white silk bunched and folded. The number was two snips away from forsaking the concept of straps entirely, and it left Bill’s arms bare to the cold, but he wasn’t bothered.

“Whew,” he said, smoothing down the front. “It’s been a while since I’ve had an occasion to bust out this old thing.”

“Oh?” Dipper asked, handing Bill a hat with which to cover his unfortunately short hair. Every five seconds, Dipper had to remind himself that there wasn’t anything special about a man’s partially concealed chest, that there was no reason to keep wanting to look at it.

He kept wanting to look at it.

“Mafia families tend to frown upon certain pastimes,” Bill said, accepting the hat. “Ooh! I should take you to one of the New Year’s masquerades. I wonder if any of my old friends will still be there.”

“You made a habit of this?” Dipper said, still reeling from the fact Bill owned clothes like this at all. He slung a bag over his shoulder, the bag they’d be using to steal the chief’s belongings. “You know, dressing up like—?”

“However I damn well please?” Bill cut him off, glaring. “And you should be grateful seeing as it’s coming in handy now.”

Even his demure attire couldn’t suppress what Dipper had to come to accept as Bill’s natural aura of power. The combination, in a word, was unsettling. In another, it was sexy, but Dipper preferred unsettling.

“This isn’t my first time around the block, Pines,” Bill said. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re the first man I ever fell in love with. I’m what you call ‘experienced’.”

They waited across the street from the entrance to the brothel, a secluded, shabby place proclaiming itself to be “Mrs. Marguerite’s Boarding House” _,_ and then underneath in shaky, painted lines, “Rooms by the hour”.

“What if someone catches a glimpse of your face up close?” Dipper asked as they watched the front door. Several men entered, two accompanied by giggling girls, but none of them were the chief. “The hat only hides your hair. Someone might notice you’re not quite right.”

“You’re assuming everyone who works for Mrs. Marguerite plays for the same team.”

“Oh,” said Dipper, scrunching his eyebrows in thought, and then a second later, “ _Oh._ ”

Bill laughed. “It really is cute, how dumb you are.”

The next ten minutes were excruciating, what with Dipper being acutely aware how Bill was presenting himself and just how close he was to touching him. But it wasn’t weird. Dipper wasn’t making it weird.

Finally, Dipper—who had begun to sweat like a melting icicle—pointed across the street, and whispered, “That’s him. There he goes.”

The chief wore a trench coat to cover his uniform, but the observant eye could still pick out his navy blue collar.

“Take my arm,” Bill said.

Dipper obeyed. He watched as the chief greeted a young woman at the entrance to the “boarding house”. They entered together.

Bill fell behind in step, letting Dipper lead the way. “Alright, Pines. You’re in charge. Remember, _you’re_ the one paying _me_ to—“

“I’ve got it. Thanks, Bill.”

No one loitering around the door was in the mood for conversation. A few of the girls eyed Dipper, but to them, it was like Bill was invisible. Dipper was simultaneously grateful and annoyed that Bill continued to be right about everything.

One of the girls let her fingers trail over Dipper’s hip as he passed. When he flinched away, she said, “I bet she won’t be any fun anyways.” It took him a second to realize the girl was talking about Bill.

Past the front door and two women taking a smoke break, the foyer was as musty as an attic. A chandelier cocooned in spider webs hung from the ceiling, a half-hearted attempt at class. It swung gently despite the air being stale and draft-less.

There was a front desk—really just a rickety table—but the woman tending it was deeply engrossed in a magazine, her heels propped up on the counter. Like the girls outside, she ignored them. There was a pegboard behind her for room keys, but it was empty.

Two sets of feet were retreating up the stairs, and Dipper and Bill followed, climbing upwards and cringing at how the whole building creaked and groaned like a tree in the wind. Then Dipper realized not all the groans were the building’s fault, and he shivered. He wanted to leave immediately, but Bill was still on his arm, and they had a job to do.

Upon reaching the third floor, Dipper panicked thinking they were alone, that they had lost their tail.

“There.” Bill nudged him to look at a door at the end of the hall swinging shut, number 312.

“Oh, goodie,” Dipper said, having hoped for a moment they wouldn’t have to go through with the robbery after all. Then he froze.

A triad of footsteps was mounting the stairs, voices giggling, beads rattling. Every hair on Dipper’s neck stood at attention, and Bill’s nails dug into his forearm.

The hallways were too cramped. They’d get too close. This whole plan was about to end in the most awkward way possible.

Suddenly, Bill flung himself at Dipper, draping across him like they were in a Renaissance painting, and for half a second Dipper mistook it for a dramatic faint.

Then came the order: “Kiss me.”

Dipper baulked. “Right now?”

“Kiss me and we’ll practically blend into the walls, or would you rather people see the both of us standing here all suspect-like?”

Dipper’s hands hovered, wobbling over Bill’s waist. Heads appeared over the lip of the staircase, voices drawing nearer.  

Bill sighed, a rumbling in his throat, and grabbed Dipper’s shirt, whirling them about-face so that his own back slammed against the wall.

“Goddamn it, Pines. You’re in love with me; act like it.”

Their noses collided before their mouths met, the kiss desperate and hasty before passionate. Bill gave a loud moan—for the act of it, obviously—and then Dipper was pressing him tighter, moulding to him as arms snaked down torsos and up necks, trying to find a convincing position.

Dipper felt the tension go from his shoulders, and god, it had been a while since he’d held Bill, since he’d kissed him like this.   

But the exchange was tainted by their surroundings. It tasted sweet, but it was the sweet of damp floral wood and stale champagne and rotting strawberries.

The voices passed by, continuing their upwards climb. No remarks were thrown at the grappling couple in the corner.

When Dipper pulled away, he was holding Bill’s wrists to the wall, having forced him into a position that could only be described as embarrassingly vulnerable, but he was so shocked that Bill needed only give him a slight push in order to escape.

Bill brushed off his dress, adjusting the straps where they’d fallen. “Now, was that really so difficult?”

Dipper swallowed hard, his only response.

Bill threw a sly smile his way. “You know, if you want, I’m sure there are plenty of vacant rooms lying around.”

“I—“ Dipper’s face prickled. He could _feel_ the blush. “Uh...”

“Only joking!” Bill bopped him on the nose. “Gee, Pines. We’ve got business to attend to! Shame on you for getting so distracted.”

If only Dipper could have blended—melted, really—into the walls in a literal sense.

Bill glanced down the hallways. “Coast’s clear anyways. Do you remember which door it was, or are you too frazzled now?”

“312,” Dipper said, determined to prove that he could be just as unflappable as Bill.

“Righty-oh.” Bill knelt where they’d dropped their bag in their rush to make out. He slipped a sack mask over his head so he looked like a provocative Halloween ghost.

Dipper laughed dryly, pulling on his own mask. “What is it with you and ridiculous costumes?” He couldn’t see much of Bill’s face through the two cut holes, but he could tell his boyfriend was pouting.

“I feel pretty,” Bill informed him. He held his hands up to his face, posing like he was the first phantom to ever model for Vogue. “Weapons?”

Dipper patted his side where the pistol Bill had given him was holstered. What he hadn’t told Bill was that he kept the bullets un-chambered and in his pocket. He himself kept forgetting it wouldn’t hurt him—or, more importantly, anyone else. The weight itself made him nervous.

Bill was satisfied however. He fished another pistol from the bag, and it was undoubtedly loaded.

“You’re doing the talking,” Bill said, inspecting his weapon and shouldering the bag.

Dipper jerked to a stop as he went towards the door. 312 was shut tight. “Excuse me?”

“The chief’s already heard my voice before,” Bill said, like Dipper should have already considered this, like it was just _so_ obvious. “He knows who I am from the last time I robbed him. I’m not exactly someone you forget in a hurry, and for once that’s working against me. You’ve got to do the talking.”

“You didn’t care to tell me this earlier?” Dipper hissed. He swallowed again, and the lump in his throat went to join the rest clotting in his stomach.

“Because you can do it,” Bill said. “But you’d never have agreed to my plan if I piled on too many things you’re not comfortable with. And by the way, that’s a frustratingly long list of things, but only because you underestimate yourself constantly. I’d call it humility to be nice—”

“So you’re forcing me to do it instead?” Dipper gripped the doorknob. It was loose, and he could have ripped it from its socket.

“No,” Bill said. “But we’re here now. We need to get his keys.”

“Bill,” Dipper said. “You can’t—“

“And we don’t just take his keys. We take everything so it isn’t blatantly obvious what we came for.”

“Bill!”

“Did we come all this way for nothing?”

“Fine!”

Room 312 was barely more spacious than a prison cell and even less furnished. The curtains were drawn and tied with string. The hinge on the door was crooked, and it crunched when Dipper threw it open. Two of three lamps were burnt out or broken, but Dipper would have appreciated three for three, if only to do him the favour of shielding his eyes.

The young woman saw them first. She shrieked and tried to scramble backwards on the bed, but she was pinned under a man twenty years older than her—the chief of police, Mr. Halesburg. They had the right room at least.

Bill had his gun out in an instant, and Dipper was slow to follow.

The chief rolled over and his jaw dropped. Both bodies on the bed were completely naked, and while the chief struggled to cover himself, the girl crawled as far away from Bill’s pistol as she could, scrunching herself against the headboard. She continued to scream, her breasts bare.

Bill closed the door and inched over to where the chief’s uniform was thrown to the floor, his holster and pistol among them. His keys would be in there.

“What— what the hell is going on?” the chief asked, stuttering.

It took five painful seconds and Bill stepping on his foot for Dipper to find his tongue. “Can you shut her up?” he snapped, taking the harshest tone he could bear.

The girl closed her mouth so fast her teeth clacked. Her eyes continued to scream soundlessly, and Dipper’s stomach turned.

_She won’t get hurt. Don’t worry about her. And don’t look at her, good God._

“What do you want?” the chief asked.

Dipper fumbled for words. What had Mabel said before? That he was the one sounding more and more like Bill every day? Well, it was about time Bill’s annoying mannerisms were put to use.

He turned around, his empty gun levelled at the chief. “Thankfully for you, not your life. We’re here for money—” He gulped, and this was where he would have stopped, trailed off, but instead he said, “Because you reek like the kind of bull that would have a little someone extra lining your pockets.”

Meanwhile, Bill was stuffing the chief’s possessions into the bag. Dipper was the only one who could hear him laughing under his breath.

 “You can’t do this,” the chief protested, rising from the bed, still holding the sheet around his waist.

“Stay where you are!” Dipper barked. “You move and I swear to God I’ll fill your mouth full of lead.”

The chief backed up, and the girl looked as if she were about to pass out—her face was as white as the bed sheets, if not whiter considering their unfortunate state. 

“I’m sorry about this,” Dipper told her. “You’ll be free to go as soon as we’re done. I promise we won’t hurt you.”

“You and your missus are making a big mistake,” the chief warned.

Dipper nearly choked. So maybe Bill was dressed feminine, but what gave the impression the two of them were married?

It seemed the chief had recovered from his shock, and he was sizing up the room, eyeing the door and watching as Bill finished packing away his belongings. “Don’t you know who I am?” he asked.

“All I see is a disgusting man who wastes his pay making love to strangers,” Dipper said, and he meant it.

“You won’t get away,” the chief said, sputtering. “I’ll have officers after you before you can spend one dime of that money!”

“Let’s speak in hypotheticals for a moment. If I were to pull this trigger, then you’d lay here, dead, ass-up on a prostitute’s bed. It will overshadow your entire life. Your wife will have to weep over your grave pretending she doesn’t know how you were found.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Well, you make me just sick enough that I might,” Dipper bluffed. “I hope your wife looks good in black.”

Bill gave a low whistle, muffled by the mask, and muttered, “Poetic, Pines. Poetic.” He held up the bag, bulging from the chief’s uniform and other articles—they had what they came for.

Before they went, Dipper dug into his pockets, ready to leave as many dollars as possible to make up for the trauma they’d put the young woman through.

Something moved out of the corner of his eye. The girl yelped, and he snapped back to attention.

“Not so fast!” the chief boomed.

He was lunging at Dipper, going for the pistol, fingers outstretched and expression furious—apparently not all police were cowards. It wouldn’t have been an exaggeration to say the man had his teeth bared.

From the back of the room, Dipper heard the safety of Bill’s gun click. He took a sharp breath.

In his mind, the chief was already on the ground, bleeding his life into the cheap carpet. The Man’s eyes were blank, but still they stared at him. His body was stiff, muscles and skin and fate set in stone.

Dipper’s head roared. _No, not yet!_

He dropped the pistol—the useless, empty weapon—and met the chief halfway, kneeing him in the side and pushing him back. Pain sliced through his leg a millisecond before the tiny room exploded with the thunder of a gunshot. The girl shrieked anew as the two men tumbled to the ground.

Stars flared across Dipper’s vision. The floor raked against his face, rubbing burns into his cheeks through the mask. A dull throb bloomed behind his eyes. Bill was shouting something, but Dipper’s ears rang with high-pitched static.

For a blissful moment, the entire world was still.

Then Dipper felt someone tug at him. Bill held him by his shoulders, helping him to his feet and untangling him from the chief, who was motionless but, Dipper could see, breathing. He must have hit his head on the bedpost.

“Damn it, Pines,” Bill whispered, and it was all he seemed to be able to say, repeating it over and over. “Damn it, damn it.”

“I’m fine,” Dipper said, shrugging Bill off. He went to take a step, but his leg refused, crumpling underneath him as he cried out. He was lightheaded when he realized he’d been shot. He’d been shot. Bill had shot him.

“We’re leaving,” Bill said, draping the bag on one arm and Dipper on the other. His mask was damp—with sweat, Dipper assumed. “We need to go. I— I had that under control, Pines.”

Dipper bit back his argument. Bill had had a shot lined on the chief’s heart, that’s what he’d had. Bill didn’t shoot to wound.

He let Bill drag him out of the room and down the stairs, past young women and clients who had emerged after hearing the gunshot. Everyone was rattled and no one stopped them.

They were outside and hustling down an alleyway when Bill asked, “Pines? Are you alright?” His mask had fallen off and horror twitched at the edges of his face. “I need you to answer me.”

“The girl,” Dipper gasped. “Will she be okay?”

Bill paused, his eyes glistening, then he tipped his head back and howled with laughter. “Holy hell, Pine Tree! You’re not serious. You’ve— I shot you.”

“But the girl—“

“I’m sure she’s seen worse shit.”

“No, I mean—“ Everything felt fuzzy, like the ground was liquidating and sticking to his shoes like syrup. “Where she is, doing what she’s doing.”

“I take it you don’t approve.”

“Well—“

Bill pushed Dipper to keep walking. “That’s life, Pines. Not everyone gets born into the middle class. If you’re good at something, or just able to do something, to get by, then personal morals come second. You adjust. It may not be ‘good’ work, but it’s work.”

Dipper mumbled, “I think I’ll go back and pay her. One day.”

 Bill eased Dipper to sit in the indent of a doorway, out of sight of whoever might decide to stroll past. “That’s well and good,” he said, “But I’d be grateful now if you could shut your mouth and let me concentrate on stopping you bleeding to death?” He clamped his hand over Dipper’s wound, and Dipper bucked from pain.

“I’m not going to die, am I?” Dipper meant the question to be humorous and dry, but it had an edge to it.

Bill huffed. “Well, it’s the first shot of mine in a while that didn’t drop the poor sap instantly.” Then he added, in a sigh that fell away into a sob, “And thank God. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault that I knocked him back, that I jumped in front of your shot.”

“It isn’t, of course,” Bill conceded. “You meant to do it, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Dipper gasped. His leg had dissolved into agony.

Bill shook his head, the beads of his dress shivering. “Don’t develop a hero complex on me, Pines. Just... don’t.”

+++

Dipper had been walking with a limp for four days, but he swore it was lessening. He’d told the doctor he’d been shot in a hunting accident, and though he’d have a pip of metal hidden in his thigh for the rest of his life, it didn’t seem to be doing anything, so he’d been told not to worry. He worried.

“It’s a good thing we had so many canes lying around the store,” Mabel joked.

They were walking down Madison, and Dipper was indeed leaning on a cane. It was embarrassing, but without it he wouldn’t have been able to get further than a block.

To his surprise, Mabel wasn’t as bothered about the accident as he’d expected. Sure, she doted and fussed and scolded, but apparently she’d seen worse working at the Den. Dipper would have complained, but to do so would have been hypocritical.

He hadn’t been able to tell her the full story, however. As soon as she learned her dear brother was injured, she’d been out for blood, intent on tearing down whoever had hurt him. Naturally, Dipper couldn’t have that. He had instead convinced her that the shot had been an accident, that’d he been clumsy enough to shoot himself, and since the wound wasn’t anywhere near fatal, she ended up laughing at him. The laughter was more subdued than her normal fair, though, more quiet smiles and airy chuckles than witch-like cackles.

Presently, they were answering Bill’s invitation to dinner. While Dipper had been busy healing enough just to walk, Bill had struck out on his own to pillage the chief’s records using the key they’d stolen, the only good to come out of their robbery. His infiltration must have been flawless—there was no news of it in the papers. The dinner was to discuss what he’d found, and for whatever reason he’d invited both Pines twins instead of just his boyfriend.

“What do you think it could be?” Mabel wondered aloud. “The secrecy is awfully exciting. Do you think the Northwests have killed people?”

“That’s your friend’s family you’re talking about,” Dipper chided. His cane caught in a crack in the pavement and he stumbled. “Oh, for Pete’s sake.”

When he steadied himself again, he spotted Bill waiting for them on the next street corner.

Mabel waved. “Hey there, handsome stranger!”

Bill waved back, smiling. When he glimpsed how Dipper limped, how he leaned on the cane, he dropped his hand.

On the Madison-Clark intersection where Bill stood, motorcars rumbled past in a ceaseless stream. Then one of them pulled out of line, stopping directly behind him. Dipper frowned as the door opened.

Bill turned around, confused as two sets of arms emerged from the car and grabbed him. Before the smile had a chance to slip from his lips, he disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Click-boom, then it happened!" 
> 
> Thanks as always for kudos, comments, and sweet vibes! Gotta love those vibes. 
> 
> And how was that for crazy? Understatement of the century or egotistical overstatement? Let me know. This chapter started out as a huge cluster-fudge by the way. At first it was just me going "you know what side of the Chicago underground I haven't touched on?" and then Shadow (cheers, love!) proposed I add in the cross-dressing/"fuck the gender binary" Bill headcanon bit, and I already had a self-indulgent, drafted scene I could snatch lines from, so at least /that/ scrapped bit wasn't a total waste. 
> 
> Ciao, lovelies!


	17. A Sad and Sorry Spectacle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you guys aren't too optimistic about cliffhangers.
> 
> (oh and warning for violence and... gore i guess? blame baeta for anything explicit. :p)

It had been a week since the incident in the brothel, so Dipper had had more than enough time to reflect on what had happened. Even though jumping in to save the chief had been a reckless act bordering on instinctual, he was glad he’d done it. He was like one of the heroes in the picture shows, and the sacrifice he dragged along in the form of a limp only further cemented this sentiment.

It took all of five seconds to curdle that sense of pride into regret.

Standing on the curb, watching the car drive away, his lame leg was a block of stone. Shock rooted him to the spot. He couldn’t run.

The motorcar swerved away, the door hanging half open as the occupants inside struggled to subdue their captive. Pedestrians cursed as the car clipped into a crowd. A lady shrieked and dogs barked.

Dipper couldn’t move, but he listed, wobbling like someone had stolen his solid ground right out from under his feet.

Mabel was at his arm, her voice high in her throat. “You, you saw that, too? Did they just—? Bill?” She pointed at the bumper of the car retreating at a furious pace down the street.

When the world snapped back together, back into focus and back to the present, it took Dipper along with it, back from the twice-removed state of reality he’d lodged himself in. He rushed through emotions and noises and thoughts half-formed, jumbled from whiplash.

The car was gone. Bill was in the car. Bill was also gone. Bill was in danger.

Still, he didn’t move. His leg wouldn’t let him give chase to the car. He could barely walk—never mind run—not with this stupid, useless deadweight slowing him down. To think that he’d begun to regard it with a sense of pride.

In that moment, he wished he’d played it smart in the brothel; he wished he’d let Bill shoot the chief. The man was disgusting and disloyal and corrupt no doubt. He wasn’t worth saving. It was laughable that Dipper could ever be considered a selfless hero by anyone--after all, hadn’t his motivations been selfish? Days upon days of reflection told him that he wasn’t a hero. He was just scared.

And if he’d been scared in the brothel, facing the death of another man, facing the potential aftermath, the guilt, then Bill disappearing before his very eyes froze his blood solid.

So Dipper found himself running. Bolts of pain stabbed down his leg, the limp skewing every step, and he could actually feel the puncture wound working its way back open, but he ran anyways. One fear conquered another and he ran anyways.

The car had cleared the jumble of foot traffic and was booking it down Madison Street.

Mabel caught up to him almost immediately. “And what are you planning to do if you catch up to them?”

The bullets tucked in Dipper’s pocket jingled as he hobbled, leaning on his cane and vaulting every other step.

“As if you’re even going to catch them in your state,” Mabel continued. She snorted, keeping her her gaze locked on the car, which was still in sight. “I’m helping you, of course. Here, we’ll keep a better pace if you suck up your pride and let me support you.”

Dipper gave no answer and soldiered on. He was half across a four-way intersection when his leg—fed up from all the undue stress—rewarded him with a crippling spasm. He crumpled, swearing up a storm and skinning his palms on the pavement, and Mabel had to help him hobble out of the way of the cars.

“Stay here,” she ordered. “You go on like this and you’ll never walk again. I’ll keep chasing, and I promise I’ll—”

“Like hell you will,” Dipper said, pulling himself to stand with his cane.

“Broski, you’re torn up and terrified and your—” She stopped to lower her voice from the shout it had risen to. “—your boyfriend just got kidnapped in front of you, but for gosh sakes that wasn’t an offer!”

“Damn it, Mabel! The last thing I need is to have you fussing over me like I’m some kind of child! There, there are more important things to worry about right now.”

Mabel reared back like she’d been slapped. “Me? Treat _you_ like—! You can’t be serious. You think _I’m_ treating you like a child?”

“You’re doting, so yes.”

“Oh, I suppose I must have missed the part where I don’t trust you to be outside alone, huh? Did I miss the part where I’m constantly paranoid about you when you’re making your own choices? It’s just that I obviously don’t think you’re of sound mind, being what you are.”

“Look, Mabel,” Dipper said, exasperated. “I’m sorry, but—”

She crossed her arms, sniffing in a petty way that she could only ever have learned from Pacifica. “No, you’re not. You just want to forget all of this and keep chasing. But since I’m adult and mature-like and all that jazz, and since Bill is my friend, too, I’m going to agree with you.”

“We can talk about this later if you want.”

“Yes, my liege,” Mabel snipped.

The car was but a pinprick now, but the traffic kept it adequately snarled, impeding its progress but also turning the street into a shifting, growling obstacle course.

Squinting, Dipper hoped he had his sights on the right car; they’d all started to blend together. He wished that the car door would open and Bill would come tumbling out, fighting tooth and nail but very much alive. No such luck.

Like a duo in a three-legged race, Dipper and Mabel tracked the car all the way to the city docks, questioning passerby and piecing together the car’s route avenue by avenue. Apparently, a rampant, speeding motorcar left quite the impression. They lost the trail just as the sky plunged into its early winter dusk.

Everything was cast in darkness, the lights of the city bouncing over the water, the air thick with mildew and rust. Cranes overhung Lake Michigan like gallows. Rats scratched in damp corners. Despite the soothing lap of the tide, nothing short of a medical sedative could calm Dipper’s racing heart. It jumped with every creak of the dock, every groan of the moored ships. His mouth was dry, rubbed raw from the cold. A trickle of blood crept down his leg. He ignored it.

The docks were huge—practically a separate cityscape in and of themselves—and the last tip off they’d received had been from a worker on his way home while passing through the very entrance to the labyrinth.

The pair searched quietly, harbouring the hope that they could trace the kidnappers by sound. An hour later and the docks remained as silent as a grieving church. The workers had all clocked off long ago.

The throb of Dipper’s leg died down as time went on, but he was moving slower than ever. It was no use. Combing the dock in the pitch dark, it would take until morning light. And even if they did find Bill, they’d be too late—Dipper didn’t want to think about what for.

Squinting from far away, he could see a body floating on the water, swirling with silt, bloated and white. He’d approach, and it’d vanish like a phantom.

He didn’t have to worry about bursting into tears; he’d been crying silently the whole hour.

Mabel groaned faintly, and Dipper turned around, wiping his face, grateful for a distraction. These depressing hallucinations had already taken a hefty toll.

“What is it?” he asked. He’d been so caught up in thinking about Bill, at cursing his injury, that it had never occurred to him that Mabel might have hurt herself in the scramble as well. “Doing alright?”

Mabel had been peeking around a pile of crates, and she frowned. “Did I say something?”

“I thought— No, wait!“ Like a deer catching the crack of a hunter’s footstep, he froze. He shut up. He listened.

The sound came again, this time accompanied by human chatter, something like a laugh that twisted Dipper’s middle.

Mabel gave a soft gasp. “I heard it, too.”

Dipper shushed her, and they crept down towards the water. Around the stack of boxes, they hopped a fence—well, Mabel hopped; Dipper ambled awkwardly, nearly pitching forwards and breaking his nose—and landed behind a storehouse. A set of stairs took them to a short, concrete balcony, and from there a flickering streetlight illuminated an unfortunate scene. Hunched above, they had a perfect view.

They’d found the car. It was parked a ways away in the shadows, a meter or two from the crowd of suits that clustered around the light like moths. They mulled around, aloof, and it took Dipper’s tired mind a moment to focus them from a hazy blob into actual people.

“You’re wasting your time with that boy.”

“You already know you can’t get the information that your want from him. He’s of no use to anyone, poor little thing, so why keep him around?”

“Eh, it won’t last much longer anyways.”

They were muttering, throwing taunts and jeers at the man bound to the post. His jacket and shirt were slashed like he’d gotten on the wrong side of a feral dog, and his hair was smeared with blood. Even from far away, the cut that had been carefully traced from forehead to chin stood out, angry and red.

Bill.

He wasn’t moving. Dipper might have fainted right there, but then Bill slumped his head to one side, perfectly at ease, as casual as one can be whilst strung like a draining carcass, and Dipper could see his sneer.

One of the men kicked him, and he flinched but didn’t cry out. Another said, “How cute, keeping him around, playing like a cat with a mouse.”

“Wow,” Bill drawled. He coughed, but if the threat of imminent death wasn’t about to snuff his sass, then nothing would. “You folks sure love to toot your own horn.”

Dipper relaxed, but not by much. At least Bill wasn’t dead. Heck, if the thugs had been able to get him to shut his trap, now that’s when Dipper would have been worried. Still, from his vantage point on the balcony, the situation was grim.

One of the men yanked Bill by the collar, holding his face to the light. It took a moment, but Dipper recognized him as the caporegime from the warehouse. He pressed a knife to Bill’s cheek. “Aw, lookie here. Missed a spot.”

“Are you getting off to this?” Bill asked, gritting his teeth. “Because I do tend to have that aff—“ The knife pierced skin and he cut himself off with a sharp gasp.

“You ready to beg yet?” The caporegime said. He carved a new gash just above Bill’s lip. “Or is your pride really so dense? No matter. We both know you won’t have a shred left after this, so might as well enjoy it while you can, huh?” He laughed, and his lackeys echoed the sentiment.

Dipper was so sucked into the horror of the scene that when Mabel spoke he almost screamed.

“We need to stop this,” she said.

Dipper gulped, but he couldn’t seem to find the air. “I know. I know, I know, I know.”

Mabel rubbed his back. “No hyperventilating, Dip. Breathe, alright?”

He clung to the guardrails lining the balcony. He wanted to press his head to the concrete, to ground himself, but he couldn’t look away.

It was clear that Bill wasn’t escaping on his own; he was far outnumbered, and already bound, bruised, and bleeding.

Mabel whispered, “Should I run for the police? See if I can’t find a joint with a telephone?”

“There’s no time,” Dipper said. “We need to do something.” He needed to do something.

Quiet as could be, he sat up and began rummaging around in his pockets. He came up with the handful of bullets, and with his free hand withdrew his pistol from under his coat, not bothering to hide the way he shook.

Mabel only watched him, her attention half on her brother and half on the scene below.

Steadily as he could, he loaded each bullet into its chamber.

The caporegime was leaning over Bill again, waving the knife across Bill’s face like he was tempting a dog with a piece of meat, daring him to follow it. Bill didn’t.

“So, what’s it gonna take?” The capo asked. “How’re we gonna make you crack?” He snorted. “I doubt you yourself even know since you don’t tend to play much with your targets. No, you just kill them. Plain and simple. I bet you think you’re better than us because of that.”

“Morally or skill-wise?” Bill asked.

“Wise guy,” the capo growls. “But you’ve got a weak spot. How about... here?!” He lunged forward, stabbing the knife at Bill’s right eye.

Bill flung himself backwards, slamming his spine into the streetlamp. The hollow metal reverberated like a low bell. The knife stopped just short, leaving no room for Bill to wiggle away, and the caporegime grinned, withdrawing his weapon.

“I think we have a winner, gentlemen.”

Bill was fidgeting now, his gaze flickering across the docks at a mile a minute, searching for a way out that wasn’t there. He tried to regain his composure, but his smile slipped when he spoke. “You know, there are much better places you haven’t even tried yet. Not you give you fellas any ideas, but I’ve been told on multiple occasions that my legs are—“

“Stuff it.”

Mabel gripped Dipper’s arm. “Dipper, c’mon. Things are getting serious.”

Dipper aimed the barrel of the pistol down towards the water, squinting at the circle of men. His index finger, however, refused to move to the trigger.

“If you cut out my eye, I swear to god I will kill you.” It was the most generic, bland-paste threat Dipper had ever heard Bill utter.

“I doubt you’ll be doing much killing after this,” the capo promised.

Dipper was aiming for the capo’s chest—he wasn’t the best shot, but the caporegime was a wide enough target. He hovered over the trigger, squeezing it at a snail’s pace.

The tip of the knife pressed against Bill’s eyelid. It would take only a flick to blind him.

The capo laughed. “Oh, there are those tears we were missing.”

Dipper fired, and the night cracked his thunder. Someone screamed.

The shot went whizzing out into the black abyss of the water. Dipper had jerked his hand upwards at the last second, and the gunshot echoed through the abandoned docks, bouncing against the cranes and the moored ships and the lapping lake.

Everyone tensed, and the men fumbled for their weapons. Their heads whipped around, and Dipper shrank back from the edge of the balcony, but the light of the streetlight did no favours for their night vision, and Dipper and Mabel might as well have been invisible.

“The hell was that?” the caporegime demanded.

Then a voice called out from offshore. “Hey, what’s happening over there?”

The dock was flooded with light. It was like the moon had descended into the harbour and was staring pointedly in their direction. The lackeys flinched away.

Dipper squinted to see the spotlight on the bow of a boat beamed illuminating the crowd of men. The figure manning called again, “Uh, is that guy okay?”

“Hell no!” This was Bill, but he spoke in jagged sobs. “I’ll strangle all of—” He was cut short by the back of the capo’s hand.

“Damn. This is something illegal isn’t it?” The figure, despite being a good fifteen meters away across frigid water, backed up. “Should I call the police?”

Total, overwhelming, suffocating silence.  

“I’m calling the police.”

The gangsters panicked, firing at the figure. Whoever it was ducked away as shots pinged across the hull, and someone else must have been at the helm, because the boat pulled away at a frantic pace.

“Shoot,” one of the men muttered. “I’m not sticking around if the cops going to show.”

He ran, and several others followed, shoving each other aside as they sprinted for the safety of the side alleys. The spotlight stretched their shadows long and alien as they scattered like bugs under a rock.

“Idiots!” shouted the capo. “The bull aren’t about to magic themselves here instantly!”

The last of his men to peel off said, “Just let the coppers deal with him. Knowing who he is, I’m sure they’ll have barrels of fun.”

Bill didn’t have anything to say on the matter—nothing but a strangled gasp escaped his lips—and the caporegime relented, wiping his knife on Bill’s shirt before sheathing it. “I suppose that is better than killing him outright. Wouldn’t want to sink to his level, now would we? Besides, I’d love to see him try to come after us in his condition.”

The lackey huffed. “That there’s a laugh.”

He gave Bill one last pat on the cheek before hurrying after his men.

Dipper listened to their fading footsteps. Soon, there was nothing left but the groan of ships and the hush of waves. The spotlight shut off with a loud clack.

“Jesus Christ,” Mabel said, shaking her head. “Are they all gone?”

But Dipper was already charging down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time until his bad leg tipped him off balance, and he nearly plunged face first onto the ground. A twist, a flail, and he hit the dock feet-first.

The light may have switched off, but the authorities were surely on their way.

“Bill!”

Bill looked up, stunned and groggy. “Pines? The hell?” The entire right side of his face was slick with blood. It pooled underneath him like a shadow.

Hugging a bleeding man tied to a post was no easy feat, but Dipper found a way. Mabel stood off to the side, letting them have their moment and keeping an eye out for stragglers.

Dipper wiped at Bill’s face, but Bill cried out in pain. “Don’t touch me! Just— just untie me. Please.”

Gently, Dipper tipped Bill’s head back so that he could see it in the light. He resisted the instinct to recoil, and fought the lump mounting in his throat. “Oh, god.”

“You followed me, I take it?” Bill asked between ragged breaths. “How much of that did you see?”

Dipper couldn’t stop staring at Bill’s face. There wasn’t just blood, but lumps, scraps of flesh. He was crying, but that was the most reasonable things about it, and his tears ran into the grooves carved down his face. Dipper remembered stories about how pirate would lash their victims with whips before pouring salt water into the wounds, and he shivered. Bill must have been in terrible shock not to be shrieking outright. That, or his pride was truly a force to be reckoned with.

“Your eye,” Dipper said. “Can you—“

“It’s just a lot of blood,” Bill snapped, but his shoulders heaved. “Get these ropes off me.”

The twins worked together untie the ropes, and the first thing that Bill did once he was freed was clutch at his face. His fingers brushed his eye and he choked on a scream, gagging it out in bits and pieces. He slumped over, shaking.

“Hell, hell no,” he stuttered. He tried to climb to his feet, but couldn’t. “God damn it, no!”

“Calm down,” Dipper said, trying to be gentle. “You’re safe now.”

Bill shoved him away. He took several, shallow breaths, steadying himself, before swiping his hand across his face and letting loose a monstrous howl.

Mabel backed away, her expression slack with terror.

Bill’s face was even worse cleaned away: every time he heaved, his cuts throbbed, leaking, and his eye was a mess of blood and fleshy pulp. The caporegime had managed a vicious stab.

Bill tried to blink and gagged again as consequence. “I can’t see,” he whispered.

Dipper laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know, but we need to get out of here.”

Bill stumbled around in a circle, wobbling, trying to see straight, trying to see anything. His good eye darted about, but the other wouldn’t follow. Tears cut through the blood smeared on his cheek. His knees gave out and he fell forward, Dipper only just catching him, relieved that his own leg held out.

“I can’t see,” Bill repeated.

Dipper clutched Bill’s arm, propping him up. “I understand that. But we need to leave.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Bill’s words were sandwiched in between shallow breaths now. “I can’t see. I’m blind in one eye. I can’t. I can’t shoot if I’m blind in one eye.”

Dipper motioned for Mabel to come take Bill’s other arm. She hesitated.

“I can’t do shit if I can’t shoot,” Bill rambled on. “It’s the one thing I’m decent at. I’m useless. They, they sure knew what they were doing. Heh. No one’s gonna want me around.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dipper promised, but his heart was still in his throat.

Mabel hooked Bill’s arm over her shoulder, and together the twins shuffled Bill away from the water.

Bill left a trail of faint laughter as they went. “You don’t count, Pines.” Then he passed out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAVEN'T. PUT OUT A CHAPTER. IN A MONTH. AGAIN. AND I WILL NOT STAND FOR IT. I AM ROSA PARKS. ON THE BUS. SAYING NO. I WILL NOT STAND. I AM KEEPING MY BLACK ASS GLUED TO THIS DAMN SEAT. FIGHT ME.
> 
> In other news, this was supposed to go up on my birthday, but that didn't happen cause my baeta called bullshit (and rightfully so) thus it went through hella re-writes and yeah. I'm exhausted. OH. But I got over a thousand kudos! Thank you all so very much!! Best present ever! 
> 
> Ciao lovelies! Best of luck in all your ventures and pursuits until next time! <3


	18. A Little Bit Louder...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout/follow up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @everyone: hey, are you guys still here? sorry for the wait  
> @shadow: thanks for doing what you do  
> @rylee: do not fret, friend. no pig intestines are mentioned herein

Dipper sat with his cane propped on the couch. His leg stretched next to it, two stiff, parallel lines, and his fingers wrapped around a coffee mug, long empty.  Outside, rain fell in a soft hush, a damper pressed against the usual city rumble. Inside, it was warm.

Mabel was out, and she’d taken up the habit of spending as little time at home as possible, frequenting The Publishing Den whether she was on shift or off. The last couple of days, she’d been more than a little scarce, but Dipper didn’t blame her.

He looked from the window, then to the dregs in his cup, and finally to the kitchen table, which he had been trying to avoid. Unfortunately, Bill’s impressive presence didn’t seem to have an off switch.

Bill was slumped over the table, elbows supporting his head, and his own mug was perched precariously close to the edge, untouched. A dog-eared book accompanied it, though this too was gathering dust.

Dipper had never entertained the thought of Bill moving in—he was still wrapping his head around the two of them being together—but if he had, he’d never have imagined it like this. For one, Bill was hardly present. He moved around about as much as the furniture and spoke even less.

Dipper picked himself up, moving to the kitchen and placing his mug in the sink with a clunk. Rain pattered an uneven tempo on the windowsill.

With a sigh, Dipper pulled out a chair and sat down opposite his boyfriend.

“Are you ready to start speaking again?” Maybe a little passive-aggressive, but Dipper knew that, had the roles been reversed, Bill would have been digging into him ages ago. An angry Bill was better than a silent Bill.

In response, Bill shifted his gaze a few inches to the left, feigning interest in his coffee. Actually drinking it was an empty threat, though—he’d done nothing but nibble for days.

“Am I just supposed to wait here for you?” Dipper asked. It was like talking to a rock. He could say anything. “Until you’re ready? Is that what you expect from me?”

He laid his head against the table, trying to see Bill’s face like how a child might peek under a door.

“Are we sure you didn’t get left behind at the docks? Because it feels like I’m talking to a ghost.” He squinted. “Wait, there’s blood around your eye again. You need to stop picking at that.”

Dipper dug in his pocket and set a crumpled eye patch on the table. He’d found it days ago gathering dust in the shop, but Bill hadn’t touched it, and Dipper hadn’t pushed. He reached for a handkerchief and set about wiping Bill’s face.

“You _should_ have left me at the docks.”

 Dipper leaned forward and let his forehead drop onto the table top. “Talk to me please? As a coherent human being?”

“I am perfectly coherent,” Bill said. “You heard what I said.”

Dipper scooted his chair closer to Bill, the legs shrieking against the kitchen floor. “No, I don’t want any of this bullshit. I feel like you’re always hiding things from me, not telling me the whole story of what you’re thinking, and ‘ _should_ have left you at the docks’? Forget the silent act; it’s obvious you want attention, even if you’re asking for it in your round-about, cryptic way.”

Bill drummed his trigger finger against the table, tapping a novel’s worth of agitated Morse code.

“You’re scaring me, Bill. I’m worried for you.”

“I just don’t know what I’m going to do,” Bill said. “I don’t what I _can_ do anymore.”

“English, please.”

“Alright, fine.” Bill sat up, leaning back into his chair and looking Dipper in the eyes for the first time in what seemed like forever. Dipper tried to hold his gaze, but goddamn. Dipper had gone to find that eye patch for a reason.

“My time with Three Points is done,” Bill said. “From the start, I was always more trouble than I was worth, and I liked pushing my luck that way. I knew that. They kept me around because I could shoot anyone, anywhere, and from near any distance, and this got me off the hook for a lot of things that might get other people decapitated.”

But I can’t shoot anymore. You give me a clear target and I’ll show you exactly what good a pistol is in my hands now. It’s a hunk of goddamn metal. And I have no one but myself to blame for it. Somewhere along the way I crossed a line, and now I’m stuck here with the consequences. I don’t want this!”

“What happened wasn’t your fault,” Dipper said.

“How the hell isn’t this my fault?” Bill growled. “Everything is my fault. Inform me, if you would, as to how this wasn’t my doing?”

Dipper searched for an answer.

“I spent years building up the reputation I had,” Bill said. “Power was all I had. Power was who I was.”

Bill didn’t laugh when he said this. He sat back, watching rain streak down the window glass, his face set in a hard scowl. “I suppose I’m just trying to figure out what’s left. And whether it was worth it.”

Dipper thought about taking Bill’s hand. He thought about rubbing his back, comforting him. A kiss, too, maybe.

But he found he couldn’t.

Instead, he withdrew. He retreated. He limped away from the table, leaving Bill silent, still but for the rise and fall of his chest. He spared a glance at the book on the table—a load of drivel written by some Frost fellow—but, somewhere along the way, Dipper had lost his taste for poetry. So much for sunshine and love stories.

The apartment felt cramped, so Dipper took the stairs down to the shop. It was slow going. He sat behind the counter, watching from behind a locked door and a _Sorry, We’re Closed_ sign as the rain picked up, slapping the street.  

+++

Bill had told Dipper that he’d always been a restless sleeper, that he’d flail his arms, roll over, mumble, but that this was nothing new. He said that he was used to sleeping on the floor—preferred it even—since he’d wake himself up by falling over the edge, and Dipper didn’t have it in him to argue. He kept his petty guilt to himself.

So when Dipper woke up late that night, he checked the floor first.

Bill had made himself a nest out of an afghan blanket and several quilts that had been a present from the twins’ mother. There was an empty indent in the middle, and Dipper was alone in the room.

He grabbed the alarm clock off his dresser and held it up to the moonlight drifting through the blinds. Everything was blurry, but both hands pointed up into the right, which meant that it was a bleary, grimy kind of late. So late that it was early. So late that it felt like instead of being asleep, he’d died briefly instead.

Dipper startled when he heard a sound from deeper in the apartment. That must have been why he’d woken up to begin with.

Leaning against the walls for leverage, he made his way to the door. He was beginning to grow accustomed to moving about with a tender leg, but clinging to the wallpaper like a damsel in a picture show didn’t afford him much dignity. He’d been considering telling people he’d been injured in the war, but had decided that it would have been twelve kinds of disrespectful.

The kitchen light was on, and it seeped into the hallway. Rummaging could be heard from within.

Dipper rubbed his eyes, squinting from the glare.

Bill bent over the counter, his shirt undone, and a bottle clutched in one hand. When he noticed Dipper, he took a step forwards. His eye was shut—his eyelids glued together in one big scab—but Dipper could tell he’d been picking at it again. There was blood under his fingernails.

Dipper, still groggy from sleep and dizzy from the lights, could only mumble. “Bill, what are you doing?”

Then Bill’s mouth was on his, and sleep was ripped away like curtains from a window, letting a harsh, artificial sunset pour in. Bill had a hand on his shoulder as well, pressing into his bones enough to bruise.

Dipper stayed where he was. He didn’t freeze or lock up, but he didn’t panic or push away either. He felt Bill’s lips, prying, searching, and when he was allowed to find breath, he asked, “Why?”

“Please,” Bill whispered. He pressed closer. It didn’t feel like a request.

Dipper didn’t remember giving the okay, but Bill was kissing him again. It tasted bitter and made his mouth prickle, like the moonshine that Mabel would slip from work and hide under the sink. Bill must have found the stash. If so, he was blisteringly drunk.

Dipper rocked on his good leg, and Bill’s hands wound their way under his shirt, pressing cold palms against his back. Dipper gasped and stumbled, and they were leaning against the counter, sliding down to the floor.

It was the worst kiss he’d ever suffered, but still, he could feel himself leaning into it. It was aggressive, but aggressive was familiar. Wasn’t he the one who had fallen in love with aggressive?

What was it that he had fallen in love with?

What was it?

He couldn’t think with Bill holding him like this, with his mouth wandering to Dipper’s neck, teasing moans with his teeth.

He went to say something, but Bill was at his ear, whispering again, “Please, you’re all I have.”

Blisteringly drunk. Completely out of it.

Dipper kissed him back, cupping Bill’s face, reining him in as best he could. Bill was all but sitting in his lap now, wrapped around him in every way physically possible.

Something in the back of Dipper’s mind told him that it wasn’t right to kiss someone so drunk, but fatigue and stress and something else that screamed louder _ohgodyes_ shoved the thought into a corner. Tipsy or not, this was a Bill he recognized. This was the one-man adventure he’d followed down dark alleys and through gunfights. Or so it felt like. And it was a relief to have him back.

Bill pulled away, his breath making Dipper’s nose twitch. Did second-hand drinking exist?

Bill scooted back a ways and placed his hands on Dipper’s hips. God, Dipper wasn’t even wearing proper pants. Bill shifted his position, vying lower—something in Dipper’s chest caught—but Dipper stopped him.

“We’re in the kitchen.”

Bill blinked slowly. “Damn.”

They bumbled down the hall, not bothering to flick off the kitchen lights, and Bill gripped Dipper’s arm the entire journey, about a half-dozen, swaying, off-kilter steps. A half-blind drunk and a cripple could only be so coordinated.

Bill let go when he flopped onto the bed.

Apart, Dipper’s head began to clear, and he fidgeted, standing to the side.

But then Bill pulled him back. He said, “I love you.” He kissed him. Again. And again.

And Dipper wanted things. These were loud things, big, bolded, screaming things that made him wish nothing else was real so he could focus on them and them alone.

God, he wanted Bill.

Everything about him made Dipper feel so alive. With Bill, impulse reigned supreme. Toeing the line, peering over the cliff and watching stones tumble into the void was a rush, but it was the fall that was exhilarating. Bill pushed him over the edge. Bill got him out of his own head. Completely. Out of it. Blisteringly so.

He brushed Bill’s hands away. He sat up.

Bill gave him a look of hazy confusion, one that was accentuated perfectly by his tangled hair and half-open mouth and his eyes. Just. His eyes. Dipper couldn’t decide which was worse to look at. Bill’s shirt had disappeared, and Dipper himself was no doubt to blame.

Dipper pulled his legs into his chest, curling into the fetal position and resting his chin on his knees.

There was a silence.

“I can’t,” Dipper managed. “But it’s not your fault.” He wasn’t sure it was the truth so much as it was the right thing to say.  

Dipper waited for Bill to argue, to jump in and try to sway him. He’d bargain, or charm, or coerce Dipper back into it. Or he’d blow up and yell. Any one of these would have made sense, would have fit within his understanding of Bill, the framework that he’d built over their time together. Dipper would have listened.

Bill rolled over. There was an aching silence.

Eventually, they both fell asleep.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! Surprise encounter! Double update!  >>>


	19. ...And a Little Bit Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *insert lyrics from The Scientist here*

The music was too much for Dipper. The brass grated his ears, and drum beats bore into his head like a chisel through ice. The squeak and clack of shoes on polished wood was even worse.

But the Chicago Publishing Den didn’t have any inconspicuous corners to hide in; not a single inch of the place existed where there wasn’t a dancing, squirming, jovial body. Jazz was as much a part of its atmosphere as oxygen and cigarette smoke, and Dipper was the only one in the entire joint to wear something even vaguely resembling a frown.

And that happy-go-lucky crowd included Bill.

Watching him now was like having a rubber band stretched out an inch away from your face. You watched it, cross-eyed, waiting for it to snap, wondering whether it will be back into shape or in two.

Dipper would have been convinced that he’d imagined the past few days except for the eye patch that covered Bill’s right eye. With no further prompting, Bill had suddenly started to wear it. Dipper had done a double-take the first time he’d seen it, but neither of them had mentioned it since.

That made one disfigurement hidden, but as if a switch had been flipped, the scars didn’t seem to be an issue either. For all the lamenting over his inability to shoot, Bill was hardly doing much follow up. And again, Dipper didn’t mention it. If Bill had something he wanted to share, he would.

The one time Dipper had needled him, asked, “What’re you planning on doing, now that your old line of work isn’t really an option?” Bill had said, “Running around, you pick up some tricks. I’ll be able to scrounge up something. I’m clever in that way.”

Nothing kept Bill down for long. Apparently.

A sense of déjà vu washed over Dipper, sitting at that table shoved into the back of the Den.

Patrons danced, flinging their legs and arms about wildly, driving dents into the hardwood floor. Bill among them, smiling, the others unaware of exactly who he was. Mabel behind a counter, laughing with her friends, flirting for tips.

But for as much as it was hauntingly familiar, something felt off. Like the entire scenario was shifted forty-five degrees to the right and Dipper had lost all sense of orientation.

He was so distracted, he knocked over his glass with his elbow and didn’t notice. He watched the dance floor, watched Bill in the whirl of things, and understood why he could fall in love with that.

His spilt drink spread across the table, pooling in his lap. He jolted back, nearly tripping over his chair. It shrieked against the floor, louder than any of the music, the chatter, the brass, and rang in his skull.

He leaned against the wall, brushing himself off.

From the turbulent crowd, his boyfriend found his way to his side.

Bill’s face was flushed, and Dipper couldn’t help but be drawn to stare at the eye patch. Distracting though it was, it suited him. Symmetrical faces were overrated anyhow, he told himself.

“Join me?” Bill offered, hand outstretched.

Dipper wavered, but remained glued to the wall. “What are we doing here?” He meant to keep his voice casual, but it tapered off in a groan.

“Well,” Bill said, joining Dipper in his pathetic lean. “I wanted to get out of the house, and you said it was about time, so here we are. Regretting it?”

“No, I meant—“ Dipper waved his hand about, as if trying to conjure a coherent thought by magic. “I’m worried about you. Are you sure—“

“Do I look like I need to be worried about, Pines?”

Dipper’s attention snapped immediately back to the eye patch. “After all that’s happened, I’d say a little concern is more than warranted.”

“Always are the worrier, aren’t you?”

“Bill, you got beat up, tortured practically. I saw that happen. You went catatonic, and now you’re acting like none of that ever happened?”

Bill snorted. “That’s called ‘getting over it’.”

“Alright, maybe that’s fair, but I’m not over it,” Dipper protested, wincing internally at having shifted the focus onto himself. “I’m still shot to hell over it, and you expect me to just keep pace with you?”

Bill crossed his arms. “Oh, _you’re_ shot to hell over it?”

“Are you?”

“The hell I’m not.”

“God,” Dipper muttered. “Do you even care?”

“About what?!” Bill yelled, loud enough to make Dipper jerk back, but not so loud that it wasn’t swallowed by the swell of the music.

There was a scuffle at the front door. At first it went unnoticed, another wave of motion was nothing to a sea of dance and rhythm, but then heads turned as shouts rang out and partygoers were pushed to the side. The band faltered. Drinks paused halfway to mouths. Conversations were clipped short.

Then an announcement, punctuated by a pistol pointed skywards, “This is a raid! Get down and stay down!”

There was a crisp moment of absolute silence while everyone took a second to digest this news, and then the Publishing Den exploded into a blind panic.

Dipper hugged the wall as people surged towards the exits. The stomp of feet was no longer rhythmic, but instead a landslide cacophony. Trumpet and saxophone were replaced by screams and hollers.

Bill’s hand locked around his wrist. “I know a way around the all the people.”

Bill was leading him, and this was natural, so Dipper went along. But his steps were skewed, off-kilter, and the entire situation seemed so much like a Molotov of old memories that it took him a moment to remember why.

He reached out for the cane he’d left resting next to the table, but the crush of bodies closed around him, and it was lost.

“Bill,” he said. “I can’t keep up. I have to get my cane back.” But the chaos was as thick as water for what good it did to carry his voice.

The grip on his hand tightened, as if to say “it’s alright, I’ve got you,” but if Bill had actually voiced anything of the sort, Dipper hadn’t heard.

The floor was covered in a spray of glass, drinks having been hastily abandoned and smashed underfoot.

Dipper looked back to the door. Navy blue uniforms were cuffing anyone they could catch. Two drunk fellows were swinging their fists while, nearby, a lady in pastel pink smiled slyly at the cop putting her in irons, apparently confident that someone would pay for her freedom in the morning. Someone was slumped on the floor, unconscious.

Bill led Dipper to a door behind the stage. Everyone had rushed the front exits, and the dance floor was completely empty. “This leads to the cellar that the musicians use as a dressing room,” he explained. “From there, you can get to the back alley. It’s always good to know your outs.”

The door was already thrown open, the musicians having taken full advantage.

“How’d this happen?” Dipper asked, still watching the spectacle over his shoulder. The police were still occupied with those at the front door. “I thought all the officers these days were paid off.”

“If the owners of the Den paid them to turn a blind eye,” Bill said. “Someone else paid them more to turn back, probably a competing business. Not that it’s any of my business anymore.”

“No honour among thieves,” Dipper said, mostly to himself.

“These are unusual circumstances,” Bill countered.

They squeezed down the hallway, feet brushing aside fallen sheet music. The walls had been hastily plastered and there were dents every meter from wayward instruments. Next came a room stacked high with crates and littered with splinters of wood and stubbed cigarettes from workers’ breaks, dust-encrusted spider webs dripping from the corners. The door, again, was open. Outside was the dark of an alley, and past that the freedom and anonymity of the streets.

Bill’s footsteps clapped on the cement floor, hurrying onwards, but Dipper paused at the door.

“Shit,” he muttered. Turning on a dime, he swiveled and started limping back the way they’d came.

Bill barked back at him, “Where do you think you’re going? They’ll have this entire place surrounded if we wait too long.”

“Mabel’s still back in there,” Dipper said. “I can’t leave without making sure she makes it out safely.”

Bill’s shoulders sagged. “We’ve been over this already. She can handle herself.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to up and abandon her. The Den’s in chaos, and I’m not leaving until I know she’s safe. I’m going back in.”

Bill caught him by the arm. Dipper went to jerk away, but Bill held firm. “You’re only going to end up getting hurt, and if you’re arrested then I can’t get you out—at least not the legal way.”

“So you’re voting we just ditch Mabel and hope she turns up later? Every man for themselves, right?”

“I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

“She’s my sister, and you’re saying you can’t even be bothered about her?”

“Quite frankly, it’s hard enough just to be bothered about you!”

Inside the Den the scuffles continued, rocking the storeroom ceiling and showering dust. There was a bout of swearing followed by a tremorous thud. Somewhere not far off, a smattering of footsteps approached, and altogether it could have been mistaken for a rainstorm rolling in.

Bill’s grip has slackened enough for Dipper to pull himself free. They held each others’ wavering gaze.

Bill tipped his head back, rubbing his temples in exasperation. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

Dipper huffed, gearing up for an argument, but footsteps were drawing closer, thunderous and insistent—he wouldn’t be able to outrun them without a head start. Or a helping hand.

Bill was waiting for him, but Dipper could hear time ticking down until he took off, poised on the balls of his feet.

Dipper turned back towards the exit. “For the record, I’m not agreeing with you morally; I’m agreeing with you—“

“Logically,” Bill finished. “Attaboy.” They joined hands and left the storeroom at a sprint—or as much of one as Dipper could manage. It was more of a loping gallop. He was getting better.

Cries of surprise sounded behind them, and Dipper felt his heart skip in his chest. Another familiar feeling. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t convince it to calm down.

They fled.

+++

Dipper had never visited a police station before. The past few months, he always assumed he’d be dragged there in cuffs, to be slammed against a wall or interrogated or any number of other violent fantasies. He didn’t expect he’d be invited in.

“Right this way.” The officer escorting him down to the detention cells held the door open for him. Dipper had to keep reminding himself that as far as this man was concerned, the only crime he’d committed was letting his sister run wild.

Dipper gave the officer his best “I’ve never broken into an office or witnessed a kidnapping no sir” smile and followed.

The station’s walls were cold brick. Had it not been for the invention of electric lights, Dipper would have expected to see torches bolted to the walls. Everything was a depressing, impersonal yet immaculate grey.

It was early morning—Dipper had been kept awake all night fretting—and so the cells were still crammed full of partygoers. It looked like someone had stuffed the entire contents of an exotic aviary into one tiny cage. The occasional stray feather even poked through the bars.

The officer tapped on the bars of the cell with his baton, rousing the residents and causing those with hangovers to groan.

“Mabel?” Dipper called. “You in there somewhere?”

From somewhere deep within the feathered, frilly fold, something stirred. “Bro-ski?”

Dipper breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah, Mabes, it’s me.”

The crowd let Mabel push her way to the front, resting her cheeks against the bars. She yawned, not looking him in the eye. “Jeez, you’re early.”

“I paid your bail,” Dipper explained. “They’re going to let you out now, and—“ He cleared his throat. “—I’ll have you know I’m very disappointed in your behaviour.” He cast a quick glance at the officer, then back at his sister, hoping for peace. Mabel snorted and rushed to cover her laughter, which Dipper took to mean that there weren’t any hard feelings.

“Hmm, yeah, I’m sorry,” Mabel drawled. “I’m a regular old misbehaviour-er. How will I ever settle down and marry if I continue on like this?”

“Too true,” Dipper said. “But you’re free to go now.”

Mabel stretched, cracking her back and shivering. The officer unlocked the cell door, letting her slip past and while he glared at the other occupants, all of which were either too tired or hungover to make a run for it anyways.

Dipper kept up the façade of stern brotherly disapproval until they stepped outside into the cool morning mist. Which was when Mabel punched him.

“God! What’d you do that for?” he asked, even though he already had a pretty good idea.

“I can’t believe you got away when I didn’t,” Mabel grumbled. “My first raid and I get caught. Just my luck.”

“I didn’t have time to go back for you,” Dipper said, a weight tugging in his gut.

“Doesn’t matter,” Mabel said. “What matters is that I shouldn’t have tried to double-back through the front once it had cleared up. Beginner’s mistake!”

As Mabel recounted to him her version of events, making the entire perilous affair sound more like a soccer match than anything illegal, Dipper found himself disappointed he wasn’t being chewed out for ditching her. He supposed he’d just wanted confirmation that he’d done something wrong.

“Why so blue?” Mabel asked. “Are you worrying again, Dip? Look.” She held both her arms to his face. “No bruises or anything.”

Dipper smiled, a thin one. “Yeah, not a scratch.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY SHIT. OK. I'm so sorry that took all summer, but for some reason the lack of structure school gives my life absolutely saps my drive to write and get things done. Whoops.
> 
> Anyways, thanks as always for whatever kudos and comments you guys left me before I dropped off the face of the earth. 
> 
> Be warned though that school aside, this story is losing momentum. Sad to say, but true. Honestly, I'm not sure how many of you are still in this fandom, or how many of you are still sticking with me. Ho hum. I'll do my best to carry on.


End file.
